Free Fall
by notmanos
Summary: How did Logan end up in the middle of a hostage situation? On a suspicious job with Marc, nothing is as it seems, and things become far more dangerous than they ever intended.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The character of Wolverine is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. The characters of Angel & Buffy the Vampire Slayer are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy. Bob and his crew are mine, and have retained legal services, so don't touch._

_N.B.: Takes place after "X2", and directly after "Human"._

* * *

FREE FALL

* * *

1

It was one of those moments where you had to wonder how your life had gone so wrong. Was it karma? Bad luck? Bad timing? Just plain coincidence?

Logan sat with his back against the wall, reflecting on all of this as the gunmen paced back and forth across the wide marble floor, the sharp scent of their Semtex worn underneath their bulky black sweaters threatening to make his eyes water. If it was just him in here, he'd have taken them out already - like fucking suicide bombers would kill him. But he wasn't alone here; there were over a dozen people in the bank, and he was willing to bet he was the only one with a mutant healing factor. If he thought he could take them all out before they could trigger their bombs he'd give it a shot, but because they were keeping the bombs concealed, he didn't even know what their triggering mechanisms were. He didn't know if cutting the wires would be enough … if there were indeed wires. He'd heard a high pitched, odd hum since the men had come in, way beyond the range of Human hearing and almost out of range of his, and it made him wonder if there were wireless detonators. Outside detonation systems even?

He'd been separated from the rest of the hostages because the leader in the front - the one with sky blue eyes visible through the slit in his black ski mask - decided he didn't like the look of him. Logan acquiesced, not cowering, but not fighting back either - he would be the ideal hostage for as long as it suited him, until he could figure out how to take them down without injuring others. Across the broad lobby, the rest of the hostages sat on the floor, stinking of fear, all save for a single young man who kept throwing furtive glances his way, his deep chocolate brown eyes asking questions that needed no verbal response, and accepted glances his way as an answer. Saddiq was smart enough to play along and wait for Logan to order the move - he had no fear of the bombs or the guns either, but Logan felt he should have. Not of the guns, as bullets would just bounce off him unless they were adamantium or "magic", but of the bombs. Technically he wouldn't be burned, and he had no fear of explosively propelled projectiles, but if he took the brunt of a shockwave it could hurt him internally. His skin might have been impermeable, but the organs beneath were as vulnerable to impact damage as anyone else's. But Saddiq was raised as a self-sacrificing weapon - he didn't show fear or hesitate no matter the situation. He threw himself into battle, regardless of whether or not he'd be hurt or killed, because that was what he'd been groomed to do. Logan would have to watch out for him since the kid had had all his sense of self-preservation removed. Luckily they kicked all the rebelliousness out of him too, leaving him obedient to authority figures, and as long as Logan kept flashing him a "no" look with his eyes, Saddiq would simply sit there passively, another perfect hostage. He knew if he got a chance to take out the hostage takers, Saddiq would back his play; he could count on Sid to break one of the robber's necks before they could pull a trigger or detonate their bomb, but after that it was unknown if he'd be fast enough to get anyone else.

Right now there were four gunmen in the front of the bank, all dressed in black, shapeless clothes, faces covered with ski masks, all carrying compact XM8 Lightweight assault rifles and an unknown amount of Semtex, and there were three others in the back, presumably plundering the vault. There were a couple of employees back there with them, and he guessed that there was someone on the outside, sending the bulletins in. They were efficient, and had clearly planned this well … an inside job? It would make sense. Maybe their conspirator was back in the vault, away from prying eyes.

The captors spoke in Swiss German, and he pretended not to understand the language so they talked freely in front of him. As far as they were concerned, he was a dumb, suspicious looking American, and that was a role he was happy to play. It was hard for him not to smile when they called him something insulting, but he managed. What threatened to set him off, though, was the fact that they often called Saddiq a "towelhead" and even worse, suggesting he could be used as a patsy for all this since he was Arab and everybody would believe it. Fucking racist pigs - he was glad Saddiq didn't speak the language, although even then, Sid probably would have been unmoved. The Rahjani guards tried to make all these kids little automatons, with no emotions of their own. Sid would take being racially slurred with the same equanimity of being asked what he wanted to drink.

If they clustered together it would have made it easier for him and Sid to take them out in one fell swoop, but they were at least smart enough to keep their distance, with two stationed by the padlocked front doors at all times, and the other two constantly on a slow prowl back and forth, keeping an eye on the hostages. A bag full of cell phones sat on the teller's counter, but he'd never heard one ring, and he actually heard one hostage whisper to another "I can't get a signal" - was that tone he kept hearing a jamming signal? If so, then the detonators couldn't be wireless. If only one of them would lift up their shirt all the way so he could get a look at the mechanism, not just a pale flash of Semtex.

A man he'd never seen before came out of the back. He was wearing the same dark, shapeless clothes of the other captors, carrying an XM8, but he didn't smell of Semtex; he only smelled of a decidedly salty, cheap cologne. He was a bit shorter than the other gunmen as well, which put him at average height." Okay, we've -" he began, in English - his flat accent defined him as American. Why was he not surprised?

The man paused when his eyes settled on Logan, and he saw those pale blue eyes widen inside his ski mask, a sharp scent of fear suddenly rising from him, making his cologne smelled spoiled and cut with urine. "Holy fucking shit!" he exclaimed, raising his XM8 and aiming it at him, taking a few steps back even though Logan was sitting on the floor fifteen feet away from him. "Mother of fucking god, don't you guys know who that is?!"

The men must have spoke some English, as the two floor walkers aimed their rifles at him as well, but at the same time shook their heads. Sid flashed him a look through the legs of one of the captors, a question, and Logan looked at him briefly, just long enough to send the message "No". What happened to him was irrelevant - did these limp dick little fuckheads think they could hurt him for a significant amount of time? _Please._

"This is Wolverine!" The American said, his rifle shaking slightly in his hand. Logan smiled at him, but it was evil, without warmth, and made that rifle barrel tremble a bit more.

The other men weren't getting it. They exchanged a glance with each other before the one nearest the American rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

"Fucking Wolverine man! You know, from the internet? That video?" The men must not have been big YouTube watchers, as that was met with rousing indifference. This was pissing off the American. "X-Men!" He finally said in exasperation, shoving the barrel of his XM8 in his direction in a violent manner, like it was a twenty foot long bayonet. "He's a fucking X-Man!"

Finally they got it, and the ones near the door aimed their rifles at the remaining hostages, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Saddiq had never been on some video caught by security cameras or a cell phone - at least not to any of their knowledge - so their eyes barely even touched on him before dismissing him outright.

"I was wondering how long it was gonna take ya to recognize me," Logan said, amused. He wasn't faking the amusement.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The American demanded, so freaked out he sounded a little short of breath. "Why haven't you tried anything?!"

"Why would I try anything?"

"You're the fucking psycho! You're the one with the knives! You ... well, shit man, you fuck people up! Why are you just sitting there?!"

Logan let his head loll back on the wall, and continued to smirk at the man hiding behind his ski mask. So very, very scared. "Why not?"

His non-answers were freaking the guy out even more, which is what he intended. Make him guess, make him fear the unknown; he'd get sloppy. Well, sloppier. If he got scared enough, he'd ruin his own beautifully executed plan. "Are you waiting for them, is that it? Are they coming here? Are you after it too?"

Logan gazed at him coolly, like he was a moderately funny clown just beneath his contempt. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Bullshit!" He erupted, pointing at him so forcefully with his rifle he almost bobbled it. "Give me a fucking answer, you mutie piece of shit!"

Logan just smiled lazily. "Eat me, fuckface."

And, just like he was expecting, the American opened fire on him.

* * *

Three Days Earlier

This was a mistake, wasn't it? A huge mistake. And in a life chock full of them, that was saying something.

Logan sat at the bar, nursing his beer, while electronic music pounded through the floor and seemed to throb through the walls. It was too loud to think or even talk, which was the point - you were here to dance or to hook up, but not to have lengthy conversations about the true meaning of madeleines in Proust's body of work. Sid sat beside him, looking miserable and slightly scared, barely sipping at his neon blue colored mocktail. Sid eventually leaned over and shouted in his ear, "Are all gay bars like this?" The place was dark, save for gel lights that seemed to pulse in time with the music, lighting up the room in shades of bloody red and suffocation blue.

Logan could only shrug. He hadn't been in enough to say.

Of course he should have expected that when Marc promised to take them on a crawl of his favorite nightspots that they'd end up in a gay disco at some point. He'd told him explicitly no nightclubs, but Marc didn't listen - did he ever?

He disappeared to the dance floor about eight minutes ago with a tall blue eyed blond who could have been a model of the traditional Swiss gene pool on tourist posters, a handsome guy with perfect teeth and skin too clear to be untouched, leaving him and Sid fending off the occasional advance. Sid was very popular and didn't really know how to deal with it; he never knew how to deal with anything in a social situation. They weren't his forte; training never covered that. So Logan put an end to it by telling guys they were together, letting them fill in the blanks that they were a couple. Since Sid didn't speak the language, he didn't know what he'd told them, but didn't care so much as a different guy didn't keep offering to buy him a drink every three minutes. There was a cover, a minimum of drinks they had to buy, which was a bit of a bitch since Sid didn't drink alcohol, but Logan was happy to take Sid's drink burden and add it to his own. He'd already surpassed both their covers by a beer.

Marc finally returned to his bar stool, sweaty and breathless. "Got me a phone number," he said, waving a scrap of paper. "I think I'll call dear old Sven as soon as we're outta here."

"I thought you didn't speak the language," Logan pointed out.

Marc shrugged, taking a gulp of his beer and catching his breath. "I know a couple of phrases. _"Point me to the American consulate"_, _"Where's the bathroom"_, _"Would you like to go back to my hotel room for a little bouncy bouncy"_. You know, the important shit."

Logan shook his head, trying not to smirk. "A horndog in any language."

"Says the guy who gets more tail than any straight man I've ever known."

Logan snorted disdainfully. "I do not."

"Oh, you do so! Shit, women fall all over themselves to hit that. It's the whole broody, mysterious loner thing you got going on. That, and your ass looks fabulous in jeans."

He tried to look over his shoulder to see for himself, but he couldn't bend that way. Logan decided to take his word for it. Marc looked past him to Sid, who looked as slightly overwhelmed and lost as he had when he entered the club. "So this does nothin' for you, huh?"

Sid strained to hear him, and looked a little confused. "What do you mean?"

"The straight club did nothin' for ya, and now this one doesn't either. What exactly are you into kid - sheep?"

Sid looked more confused than ever. "What?"

Logan gulped down the rest of his beer, and decided to rescue him. "I think they took out his sex drive, Marc."

He may have been wearing protective goggles, but Logan could tell Marc was shocked by how slack his jaw had gone. "Are you shitting me?"

"No. The Rahjani kids were heavily engineered, to spec from what I gather, and let's face it - you don't want your little killing machines getting distracted by thoughts of sex when puberty rolls around. I think these kids were genetically engineered to have as close to zero sex drive as possible without losing that all important testosterone."

It was Sid's turn to look startled. "Do you really think that's why I don't …" He paused as he struggled to find the right word. " … care about any of this?"

He nodded. "I think so. I mean, I'm just guessin', but it sounds logical."

"You poor kid," Marc gasped, clearly horrified. "You got balls, right?"

Now Sid looked horrified, and glanced down at his own crotch.

"I don't think he's a eunuch," Logan said. "I think he's just asexual." He paused briefly, casting a questioning look at the kid. "You do got, uh …"

"Last time I checked," Sid replied, blanching slightly and looking away abashedly. The poor kid, they were probably mortifying him. Of course, calling him a kid was wrong - when it came to this kind of stuff, yeah, it applied; his social skills needed work. But in all other respects he was a grown man, and had been as long as he had been able to wield an automatic pistol and kill a man with his bare hands. He supposed if Weapon X got a chance to groom him from the genes up, he might have ended up like Sid, which was kind of a sad thought. Mainly for Sid, who surely deserved better.

"I guess I should stop trying to get you laid then," Marc told Sid.

The look of confusion seemed permanently etched on Sid's face now - Logan wasn't sure if he should pity him or start laughing. "That's what you've been doing?"

Marc nodded, finishing his own beer. "It's a vacation now, kid. You should be enjoying yourself. Sorry you can't."

"I can have fun," he protested mildly.

"Oh yeah?" Marc seemed dubious. "What's your idea of fun?"

Sid considered this with an abnormal amount of gravitas. "I enjoy tae kwon do practice." He paused briefly. "I'm pathetic, aren't I?"

Logan patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay. I think you just need lessons."

"Lessons in fun?"

"Oh no," Marc said, getting off the bar stool. "Not tonight. Sounds too much like a bad teen sex comedy."

"And here I thought you enjoyed those," Logan said.

"Not when I could be playing the lead in a hardcore porno instead," he replied, flashing him a shit eating grin and raising his eyebrows lasciviously. Logan shook his head, suppressing a smile as he slid off his stool and started after him through the nightclub. Sid followed, looking relieved to either be done with this conversation or be out of here, or a combination of the two.

Outside the night was clear and cold, the stars bright pinpricks in a black sky, and after all the concentrated noise of the club, the quiet seemed sudden and shocking. Not that downtown Zurich was completely quiet; there were car noises, other clubs down the way that had their doors open and let their music bleed onto the street. He heard acid jazz, metal, American style R&B, and the faint electronic thudding of the club they'd just left. This was the "fun" section of the city, which was actually a little lacking in the fun department. It was a quaint, charmingly European city, with hints of Nordic and Teutonic influences in its architecture, in its peaked roofs and clean facades, although some of the roads - and drivers - seemed more French inspired. It was a nice city, tidy, businesslike, but there was something a bit cold about it, and not just in an actual physical way; it seemed a bit closer in spirit to stultifying dull Copenhagen than the sometimes careless hedonism of Amsterdam. This disappointed Marc, but as always he made do, and sought out fun wherever he could. And Marc could probably find fun even in Copenhagen, although he'd probably have to bring it with him.

The job they'd come for was already over. It was stupidly easy, a bit of corporate espionage that Marc did all by himself. Logan and Sid waited nearby, ready to cause a distraction if something went wrong, but nothing actually did. They just got to wait in the lobby of some big glass and steel monstrosity where they couldn't even see the blue-grey water from the window, listening to various walking suits talk on cell phones as they came in and out of the building, and even though he understood every language those people spoke - English, Swiss German, French, Italian, Dutch, even one woman spitting out harsh Russian syllables - he never once guessed what the fuck all these people were doing. Selling stocks? Suing various governments? Bidding on eBay? Launching donkeys towards Venus? Could have been anything.

They were a couple of blocks from their hotel - actually a very nice place, one of the places dedicated to upper class businessmen more than run of the mill tourists - when Marc's cell phone went off. His ringtone was Prodigy's "Poison", so it was like the gay bar came with them for a second. "Sven misses you already?" Logan asked as they all paused on a street corner.

Marc pulled out his phone. "Nobody can resist me; I'm like Shaft with better hair." He glanced at his phone and frowned. "Oh fuck."

As he answered the phone, Sid leaned over and whispered, "Shaft?"

Logan shook his head in disbelief. "Aw kid, we're gonna hafta take you to the video store when we get back to the States."

The way Marc scowled, Logan assumed it was bad news (and clearly not Sven). "This is really irregular," he said after a very long time of listening. "I've done the job; our transaction is complete. Now? No, I don't think -" Marc was quiet for a long moment. "Say that again? Okay, be there in ten minutes."

As he flipped his phone shut and dropped it back in his pocket, Logan guessed, "Haun?"

Haun was the surname of the man who had hired Marc this time out. Logan didn't know his first name, nor had he seen him; in fact, he had no idea what the guy did. He was a rich businessman of some sort, and Marc never elaborated - he had client confidentiality, and unless they were actual "primaries" on the job, apparently they didn't need to know anything about him beyond his last name.

Marc nodded. "He was happy with the job I did this morning, and now he has an emergency gig for me."

"And he wants to see you now? At a quarter to midnight?" Logan knew Europeans did things differently, but this still seemed really suspicious.

Mark stared at him placidly. "He upped my fee to half a million dollars American."

Wow. Now he was sure this was as fishy as fucking hell. "This is illegal, isn't it?"

He just shrugged. "I'm a merc, Logan - everything I do is illegal."

Okay, that was a fair point. "More illegal than normal."

"Yeah, maybe. But for half a mill, I'm sure as shit listening to his pitch. Sven can wait an hour." And with that, Marc changed direction and walked across the street, making a moped swerve as the driver made an obscene gesture at him. Marc made an even more obscene one back, never even breaking his stride.

Logan sighed heavily, aware he should probably get the kid back to the hotel first, but damn it, there was no way this could be anything but bad news. Marc could be walking into a trap of some sort - it wasn't like he didn't have enemies. Didn't he care? Wasn't he concerned?

No, probably not. So after exchanging a glance with Saddiq, they followed Marc, being a bit more mindful of traffic.

Why did he go with Marc on his gigs? They were never anything but trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Marc went to a tall, modern steel and glass office building that resembled the one he'd been to earlier, only this one was almost completely dark, save for a band of light on the tenth floor. Marc had to rap on the glass front doors with his knuckles - they were code locked - and he was given the once over by a guard who spoke broken English and looked like the offspring of the person in Edvard Munch's "The Scream". Seriously, he was a man with a long chin and a narrow face that looked like it had been slammed in a car door one too many times, and his hair was such a wispy, pale blond that it looked like he had no eyebrows until you got close up. He could have been anywhere between his late thirties to his early nineties. His watery eyes gave Marc a skeptical scan, and then he turned an even harsher glare on him and Sid. Marc gestured over his shoulder at them, and said, "These are my associates."

He looked really doubtful; his mouth pursed into a pucker that appeared painful. "He wants to see you alone," he told Marc, struggling with the hard A sound.

"They'll wait for me down here."

How nice of Marc to ask them first. Logan glared daggers at his back, but at least it got them in the door.

The lobby was a low rectangle of glass and marble like composite (it looked like marble, but it had an odd smell, and the sound of footsteps on it was off - he'd have asked what the hell it was, but then he suddenly realized he didn't actually give a shit), with a semi-circular desk made of black plastic that gleamed like patent leather and a small "waiting area" that had a couple of butterscotch leather sofas that still managed to looked hard and uninviting. As Marc walked back to the bank of elevators, Scream went behind the desk and unlocked one of the lifts, and as he strolled past, Logan glimpsed the security monitors hidden behind the desk. If he could judge by what he saw there, they were pretty much the only people in the building besides Haun.

Before Marc disappeared into the elevator, he held up his hand and flashed him five fingers twice. He was telling him to give him ten minutes before coming up, and Logan gave him a curt nod before wandering over to the waiting area, with Sid on his heels. With Scream alone here, he didn't care if the guy was armed with anti-tank missiles - he wasn't even going to make him pause if he wanted to go upstairs after him. Presumably there were other security measures, but again, not anything he probably needed to worry about.

He flopped down on one of the couches, and it was as hard as he anticipated. He put his feet on the edge of a glass and chrome coffee table that had a couple of glossy magazines piled neatly on its surface. Logan noted a German financial magazine on the top of the pile, but after Sid had taken a seat next to him, he pulled out a magazine underneath it that was a French travel magazine. What an interesting pair to draw to.

That also reminded him Sid could speak French. All the older Rahjani kids knew Arabic, English, and French, although Sid had once told him he couldn't switch back and forth quite as quickly as he could. He once asked him how he kept all the languages he knew straight in his head, and all Logan could offer him was a shrug. He honestly didn't know; he didn't even know how many languages he spoke. It was like direct access to that part of his brain had been cut off, and yet that part still found a way to express itself independent of him. He didn't control it at all; it was almost perfectly autonomous. That was why it sometimes took him a moment to realize he'd just said something in another language, or heard something clearly in another language. It was like a mental blind spot that he could still somehow use, but he was never in control of it.

Sid idly flipped through the magazine, and Scream took a seat behind his big desk, surreptitiously slipping earbud earphones into his ears. Did he have an iPod back there? Well, no one said that scarecrow resembling security guards couldn't have iPods. Marc had one, loaded with metal and house music - it was like his play list said _"I'm extremely gay, but I can still kick your ass" _… which was actually a pretty accurate assessment. He wondered what Scream's play list said about him.

Logan checked his watch to verify the time, and Sid made sure that the guard wasn't paying any attention to them before asking quietly, "Is there some way I can overcome being asexual? I mean, am I stuck like this?"

Belatedly, he realized he should have got Marc alone and told him. This probably made Sid feel bad, and that was never his intention. "You can overcome any limitation, kid, if you put your mind to it. I really wouldn't worry about it anyways. Sex is highly overrated; it's usually more trouble than it's worth." That was of course bullshit, but there was no way the kid could know that.

Sid looked at him with a skeptical scowl. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"When do I ever do that?" At least he had a reputation as a bit of a grumpy bastard - sometimes that came in handy.

He grimaced and looked away, acknowledging the point without admitting it. After a moment, he pretended to flip through the magazine, then said, "I hate feeling like an alien all the time. I tried to force myself to be like everyone else … but I don't know how they do it. I mean, that's what I devoted all my time to in L.A., but it didn't matter. I had no idea what to do or how to do it, and I didn't know who to ask. I don't even know how to talk to people."

He sighed, wishing Marc would hurry up and get his ass back down here. He was not an agony aunt, nor did he ever want to be, even though he did feel sympathy for the kid. "You need to stop worrying about it. You'll make it worse if you obsess on it."

"I'm not obsessing, it's just … what if this is all I'm good for? What if this is all I am?"

"Well, that's just bullshit. You aren't just a bunch of engineered genes, and you ain't just a bunch of indoctrinated traits. If you honestly believe you're the animal they wanted to convince you you were, they've won."

"Tool."

He looked at him sharply, wondering if he was insulting him. "What?"

"They told me I was a tool of the court, not an animal." He paused, and looked at him thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. "Is that what those people, Weapon X, tried to convince you _you _were? An animal?"

Oh Christ - it was like Sid was deliberately jumping to topics he didn't want to talk about. But realistically it was his fault - he should have known they considered Sid more of an object than a creature. He was the only creature 'round these parts. "It doesn't matter, 'cause they were full of shit. And the Rahjani court was too. Don't forget that."

"I know that. I think. It's just … it's so hard."

"Yeah, I know. But it gets easier as time goes on. You just gotta hang in there, and remember you're stronger than them."

Sid nodded and sighed, flipping the slick pages of the magazine, which showed pictures of tropical isles with translucent blue water and bronze skinned topless women who looked like they'd walked out of some teenage boy's dream. That would have been nice - to be on assignment in Saint Tropez, drinking eighty proof rum and watching the sun collapse into water as blue as gemstones. But no, Marc had to take an assignment in Zurich in _autumn_.

He thought he could hear a faint buzz of music coming from the guard's iPod. Was he listening to Souza marches? Dear lord.

At the eight and a half minute mark, he saw the unlocked elevator's panel light up, and after a brief hum the doors parted with the slightest gasp, and Marc strolled out, his long grey leather coat flapping like wings behind him. "See you later, Gustav," Marc said to the security guard, giving him a dismissive little wave. Marc looked at Logan and jerked his head towards the door - that meant he'd tell him what was going on outside.

As soon as they were all back out in the sharp, icy air, Sid asked, "His name was Gustav?"

Marc shrugged. "No fucking idea. He just looked like a Gustav. Or maybe a Dolph."

"I thought he was more of a Nils."

Marc rolled his shoulders again, and led the way down the seemingly deserted street. "Could be all of 'em. Will we ever know?"

"So what's up?" Logan prompted.

Marc chuckled in a low, slightly humorless way. "You won't believe this. So Haun was informed that there's something valuable to his family that has been recovered, but it's in the hands of some unscrupulous people, and he can't legally prove it belongs to his family. So he wants me to get it back for him."

"Can't legally prove it? Already this sounds like bullshit. What is this thing?"

"He wouldn't say. Just an heirloom of more emotional than monetary value."

"That he's paying you a half mill for? I call bullshit."

"I agree, except I was thinking - look where we are."

Logan glanced around, but assumed he didn't mean the Zurich business district. "Switzerland?"

"Yeah. And what scandal has recently been dug up here?"

It didn't take him long to think. There weren't too many scandals involving Switzerland; it was a fairly scandal free place. Except ... "Nazi gold? You aren't serious."

"What?" Sid asked. He was probably out of the world news loop; it wasn't like this scandal was all that recent anyways.

"Some Swiss banks kept gold and other looted treasures for the Nazis, despite their position of neutrality," Logan told him. "It was all rather nasty and ugly, as all things with Nazis generally are."

Marc nodded in agreement. "And just from his hinting, I figure this has looted Nazi treasure written all over it. The problem is, he really can't prove it to get it back. Which opens the door to two possibilities: he's telling the truth, and something stolen from his family is here, and he wants to steal it back since he can't take it to court."

"Or two," Logan continued, following the logic. "It's not really his, but he wants it anyways."

Marc tapped his nose and then pointed back at him, a non-verbal way of telling him he was spot on. "I shoulda had you in the room to do the sniff test, but he's a nervous sort. Only wanted to deal with me."

"Sniff test?" Sid repeated.

"Smell the truth," Logan said. "I can smell lies, remember?"

"Oh, right," he answered, in a kind of distant way that suggested he'd forgotten.

"So where is this thing?" Logan continued.

"Let's wait 'til we get some privacy, huh?"

There was no one out on the street with them - not now, anyways - but he could understand the need for privacy. If Marc was right about the Nazi connection, this could be potentially nuclear in its scandal.

* * *

Back at the hotel, Marc showed him what he had, and it wasn't much. All Haun knew was a guy named Hans Naslund was acting as a "broker", a go between for the people who had the item and the people who wanted it. There were some grainy photos of him taken from security cameras, revealing Hans to be a man in his late forties, with a pot belly and a crown of whitish hair that had fallen back until his bald pate was exposed, leaving his remaining hair like a wreath around his lower scalp. He wore black framed glasses that made his eyes look small; his face was unremarkable, as was his wardrobe, and his posture was slightly stooped, hands almost always driven deep in the pockets of his heavy overcoat. He ran an antique shop downtown, although Haun didn't think the item in question - which Marc was calling "the ark", as in Raiders Of The Lost Ark (who didn't love a nerdy, funny mercenary?) - was there, as the antiques he dealt with were of the more "common" variety, and his security wasn't that good.

The first thing they needed to do was a reconnaissance, maybe a stake out, and Logan volunteered to go ahead and venture into the lion's den first, leaving Marc and Sid to stake out the area.

They got up late the next morning, had a reasonably decent breakfast at the hotel restaurant (was the waitress giving him the eye, or Sid? He honestly wasn't sure; maybe she was giving both of them the eye), and then struck out for Hans's antique shop.

The street was fairly busy with pedestrians, so he didn't feel too inconspicuous. He even wore a fairly heavy black leather car coat (borrowed from Marc) and had a black watchcap pulled over his hair, so he'd look fairly normal. (He didn't need the coat - cold never bothered him much. As for the hat ... okay, yeah, his hair was a bit weird. There was no help for it though, was there?)

A bell over the door sounded as he walked into Hans's shop, and he instantly had to stifle the urge to sneeze. The place was thick with dust and the smell of crumbling paper, aging wood, all the olfactory hallmarks of things slowly and elegantly decaying. It was a place full of dark, polished wood and low shelves, displaying cases and globes, old style clocks, a Tiffany lamp, and even tin toys from the very early twentieth century. The windows were soaped over at the top, perhaps to prevent too much sunlight from getting in and damaging delicate items, so there were low amber spots here and there, giving the whole store the general overall color scheme of faded parchment. He felt like he'd stepped into a Twilight Zone episode, and wondered if that was far off the mark.

Hans greeted him in Swiss German, his tone businesslike and not all that friendly. He wasn't offended - Logan had a vague sense that the Swiss were not an overly warm or demonstrative people, not with strangers at any rate, although he wasn't sure where he'd formed that impression. More World War Two detritus? He had no memory of ever being here before, and yet a vague sense of deja vu seemed to smack him in the face around every corner. He assumed he must have been here before in some time lost to his mind; he assumed that was why he could speak the language.

Logan decided to just speak regular German and see if he could muddle through a conversation with him. Luckily, Hans could speak regular German as well - it wasn't that big a leap from Swiss German to plain old German - so that was okay. He had no idea why he decided that he wanted Hans to think he was German, not American or Canadian, but he knew he'd never be able to pass for Swiss.

There was a low glass counter where the cash register - an antique in itself - sat, and looking down into he saw antique brooches, pocket knives and pieces of heirloom silverware, and some timepieces. He acted interested in a silver pocket watch with a slightly dented case, that Hans eventually took out so he could inspect it up close. It was still working, and dated from the very dawn of the twentieth century (you had to love Swiss timepieces - say what you would about them as a people or a government, but they could make a watch). It was a nice piece, one he was tempted by, but it was extremely expensive.

They did some small talk - Logan didn't know a lot about watches, but he bluffed as best he could - and he got a feeling that Hans was starting to warm up to him. He mentioned that he was also a collector of antique weapons, and wondered if he had any. Hans brightened, as of course he did, and Logan waited to see if he'd ever offer a gun.

Because that was what he smelled: gun oil. Not on him, and not behind the counter. Just somewhere in here. The problem was, he'd need to have a huge sneezing fit, and then, once he had adjusted, he'd have to close his eyes and carefully parse all the diverse scents here to find the trail that would lead him to it. He imagined that it was probably somewhere in the back room, which was only assessable through a dark green curtain behind the counter, but Hans never went there. It seems that on the shelves, in amongst the various cases and containers (some of which were surely antiques themselves), were the weapons, and even though none appeared marked, Hans knew where every single one was. There were knives of great variety, some dating back to World War One, a Prussian sabre, a musket that had cracks along the barrel (it smelled faintly of the black powder that used to be its firing medium, but it didn't smell at all of modern day gun oil), and even a pike from the Swiss Army guards dating back many decades, but he showed him no weapon that reeked of gun oil. He couldn't say he was disappointed or all that surprised.

The back room was the interesting bit, he could tell. He needed to find a way to get there legitimately; he didn't want to bowl this old guy (holy shit - he thought he was old? How the fuck old was _he_?! At least double this guy's age …) over if he was a legitimate (or semi-legitimate) businessman who didn't realize what he was dealing in.

He made up a story that he had to return to Berlin tomorrow, but he'd call his appraiser tonight and see if the price of the watch was fair. Hans took that with equanimity, and gave him the shop's phone number so he could call ahead if he wanted to come in. That was pretty much it, Logan left, and it was probably the least bloody reconnaissance he'd ever been on. But as soon as he was out of view of the shop's windows, he stopped and went into the huge sneezing fit he'd been holding back. Damn, it felt like he was expelling a pound of dust - his eyes were watering and his nose was running like a leaky faucet as soon as he was done. A nattily dressed man even paused and offered him a handkerchief. (Okay, maybe he was wrong about the Swiss as a people. Maybe he was thinking of the Latvians. Or Americans. Jesus, how was he supposed to keep track?)

As soon as he was done sneezing, he wiped the tears from his eyes and the snot from his nose with the back of his hand, and continued down the street. This was a nice one, clean and quaint, with lots of small shops devoted more to the urban dweller than the tourists, although clearly they weren't ignored, as the McDonald's on the Southwestern corner attested to. He paused to bend over and pretend to tie his bootlace, and was able to glance surreptitiously behind him, using shop window reflections. He felt he was being watched; it was like the eyes were burning holes into his back.

It wasn't Marc or Sid. He hadn't seen them, but he knew they were watching the street, and that was it - they'd be watching the _street_, not him. Marc was a pro, he'd never stare at his own undercover man, and he wouldn't let Sid do it either. Somebody else had noticed him, and didn't like him.

Did Hans's shop not get a lot of business? Did the men who wanted the deal to happen keep a close eye on his shop, just in case someone came snooping around? This was a scenario he discussed over breakfast with Marc, and they thought it was a very good possibility, especially if this thing was as hot as they suspected it was. That's why he was going ahead as a decoy - to see the response.

Marc couldn't tap the land line in the store (and even if he could, he wasn't fluent in either form of German), but he had an impressively powerful directional mike, so he probably caught every single word in the shop, and he was recording them digitally, so if translation was necessary, Logan could listen to it later and fill him in. If Hans was now talking to someone - or someone was talking to him - Marc was catching every syllable. Haun had a pitiful lack of information, Naslund was his only lead, which is probably why he hired Marc in the first place: he would have rather handled it privately, but wasn't sure how. And to be quite honest, neither he nor Marc were certain they'd give him his prize. Logan wanted to verify that this "heirloom" - whatever the hell it actually was - belonged to his family. If it didn't, he wasn't going to give it to some scum sucking, fancy pants greedy bastard. For some reason, that amused Marc, but he agreed to go along with that in exchange for his help. (Sid, who came with them because he was bored, was helping regardless.) Yeah, maybe it seemed weird coming from him, but if this was pilfered loot, it had been paid for in blood, and he was not going to turn it over to someone who wished to profit from it even more. Whatever it was, people had died needlessly and cruelly for it, and the exploitation of it had to stop. It was too late for the people, but it was the principle of the thing.

Logan didn't think he had a follower - not yet - just a watcher, but as soon as he straightened up, he sauntered down the street, presumably window shopping, and ducked into a bookstore, staying near the windows so if the watcher wanted to continue, he could. He took a long time browsing titles at the end of the shelves, and finally he thought he saw a guy in a dark suit and a navy blue topcoat across the street, loitering and lingering for no obvious reason. A fedora like hat shaded his face, and Logan felt he should give him bonus points for the noir homage. He sucked on a cigarette aggressively, like it was the last smoke before the firing squad did their duty.

Logan went ahead and bought a book, just to make him look legitimate, and then left the store, careful not to notice the man and yet keep him in the corner of his eye. He looked like he was just a random businessman, taller than most, the dark suit hiding his body so well Logan couldn't tell if he was muscular or not. Was he packing? The topcoat hid the telltale bulge of a shoulder holster, but just the way he was carrying himself made Logan think that was a big affirmative. He hadn't crossed the street yet, and in spite of the traffic along the boulevard, he was certain he could have if he wanted to. He was probably just keeping an eye on him, trying to judge if he was just some kind of German businessman on a daytrip in Zurich, or if that was simply a very flimsy cover. Maybe that was a promising sign - maybe these people wouldn't needlessly harm an innocent. Not that that was going to save them, mind you, but maybe he wouldn't kick their asses totally concave.

He decided to force the issue. He turned suddenly down a narrow side street. If the guy wanted to keep watching, he'd have to cross the street and commit to following him, and that was exactly what Logan wanted. He soon came to a boarded up shop - Logan could smell the fire damage inside - and ducked into its recessed doorway, and commenced to waiting.

He really didn't know if the guy was just doing harmless surveillance or intended him bodily harm, but it didn't matter. This was why he was the decoy. He was going to grab the guy and find out who he was working for, and what the fuck this "heirloom" was.

It was a terrible cliché, he knew it, but he really did have ways of making people talk.


	3. Chapter 3

He waited for at least five minutes, and while he heard the scuff of shoes at the head of the street, he also heard the scuff as they retreated. Damn it!

He held out hope that it was a fake and lingered a couple of minutes, but it wasn't happening and he knew it. His impulse was to go after the guy, but that would blow his cover. So he waited a few more seconds, then headed down the street, casting a single glance over his shoulder before pulling out his cell and calling Marc. "What the hell happened?"

Marc sighed faintly. "Not sure. Either he spooked, or figured you weren't worth the bother. He seemed to study the street for a moment and then bugged out. Don't sweat it, we'll get him next time."

He grunted in reluctant acknowledgement. They'd better. He wanted answers, the sooner the better.

"Why don't you go to the rendezvous point? We'll meet you there soon. I got something for you."

The rendezvous point was a dark little pub where no one seemed to speak English, which was ideal for their purposes, although Logan warned him that someone in their could be playing clueless just to eavesdrop on them. (He'd done that enough to suspect it in other people.) The fact that he said he had something for him pretty much meant that someone had come in after he left and talked to Hans, but Marc didn't speak the language and had no idea what they talked about, so he was going to have to play interpreter.

Feeling the typical letdown of a wasted adrenaline surge, he went to the pub, which was all polished wood and pale lighting, and ordered a dunkelbier (a dark lager), and looked at the book he'd bought. It was a German science fiction novel. Well, why not?

He was starting the second chapter and beer by the time Marc and Sid came in, and people did stare at them, not only because Marc was his usual loud American self, but because they were the only non-whites in the whole place. That wasn't true of Switzerland as a whole - it wasn't quite as white as you'd think, or as it used to be - just this place at this moment in time. They still stayed to have a beer (not Sid, of course) before wandering back to their hotel like a bunch of tourists.

The recording Marc had made was very interesting. A man entered Naslund's shop shortly after he left, and started questioning Hans about him. He asked Hans if he had asked "nosy" questions, if he had seemed "suspicious" in any way. Hans said no, and Logan couldn't help but snort when Hans said he'd been a "nice young man". After he told Marc that, he clapped his hands together. "Hot damn! He's a shitty judge of character! We've hit the jackpot!"

He glowered at him. Logan was sitting at the head of the hotel bed, listening to the recording, while Marc sat on the end, awaiting instant translation. Sid sat at the small desk just beyond the bed, his posture so ramrod straight Logan's back almost wanted to hurt in sympathy. "I'll have you know I was runnin' undercover missions while you were still in diapers," he told Marc. That was true from what he'd gathered, he just couldn't remember it. "If I want to seem like a nice young man, I can do it."

"Then why don't you seem that way in real life?" Marc challenged, grinning like he already knew the answer. He probably did.

"'Cause when you're a nice young man, people don't leave you the fuck alone. Can we get on with it?"

They did, although it was clear Marc would have rather teased him some more. Marc had taken a lot of photos of the shop and all the men he thought were watching the place (three in all, including the one that tailed him), and the photos of the back of the shop showed a door that must have led directly to the back room. It was only secured by an old fashioned key and bolt lock that would surely do for its basic purpose, but would be easy work for Marc. Of course, even if it was a super sophisticated lock, Marc could get through it with no problem, as he was an expert at getting in where he didn't belong.

The card that Hans had given him with the shop's number also had its business hours, so it was easy to formulate a plan of action. Logan would call Hans shortly before the shop's closing and tell him that an emergency back home had him catching the red eye back to Berlin, but on his way to the airport, he wanted to swing by and buy the watch. Figuring that Hans just didn't have that much business, he'd be willing to stay open a bit after hours for the transaction. So while Logan was buying the watch and keeping him busy in the front of the store, Marc would break into the back room and have a look around to see what he could find. Sid would be the floater outside, keeping an eye out for the guys watching the shop, and he was told to temporarily neutralize them if they seemed to be getting too close. (Because Sid only had two modes: temporary neutralization or insanely permanent neutralization. Logan could sympathize.) They'd all be wearing earpieces so they could hear what was going on: Logan's phrase that something was wrong was _"Have you ever been to Berlin?"_; Sid's phrase was _"It's getting cold"_; Marc would just curse if something was wrong. They'd all leave separately, assuming everything went according to plan, and rendezvous outside a pub couple of blocks away. If things went wrong, well, they'd have to kick some ass.

As back up plans went, it was very simple and basic, yet wildly effective.

The worst part was the waiting - that was always the worst part - but Marc killed a great deal of it by coercing them to go out and get some weather and city appropriate clothing, as another thing that he and Sid had in common was a lack of stuff; they traveled light, and Logan had to admit that even that had its own limitations. Still, Marc wanted to buy them the most outrageous stuff, and Logan wouldn't stand for it, but Sid was too accustomed to obeying authority figures to stand up for himself against Marc's sartorial assault. Marc saw the unspoken horror in his eyes and stopped, though. Not that he stopped bugging him - oh no, he just left Sid alone. He wasn't a bully; he just picked on those who could defend themselves.

When they returned to the hotel, he had time for a beer in the bar before he had to call Hans, and their gamble was right: Hans didn't get enough business that he could turn this down. He agreed to stay at the shop until he swung by, and said he'd have the watch ready for him. After that they waited some more, as they didn't want to be too quick on the draw, and night was always a handy cover (as well as an advantage to Marc, as he saw in infrared).

Marc left first, then Sid, and then Logan caught a cab that took him straight to the shop. The night was clear, therefore even colder, and if it wasn't for the lack of trees and rednecks he'd have thought he was in Northern Canada. The shop door was locked, a "closed" sign out, but the lights were on, making the windows glow a honeyed amber. He knocked, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone loitering in the shadows up the street. It was Sid, on watchdog duty.

Hans opened the door and let him in, the warmth of his store almost overwhelming after the crisp air outside, and once again he had to stifle the urge to sneeze. (Didn't he ever dust?) They had a friendly, meaningless conversation about the weather, while he heard Marc say in his ear, "Going in."

Hans had the watch ready for him, in an elegant box on a bed of cotton batting, and he pretended to examine it closely, noting details, buying time. He didn't hear any noises in the back, so he figured Marc was doing a good job of silently creeping about.

It was all going really well - Hans must have been a lonely guy, as he was eager to talk - until Sid said quietly, "It's getting cold."

Uh oh.

"What's wrong, kid?" he heard Marc ask quietly.

"I just found one of the guards from earlier," he reported. "Dead. He's been garroted. I didn't do it." He added that last bit needlessly, as everyone knew Sid wasn't the garroting type.

Hans was looking at Logan funny, as he had seemed to zone out of the conversation. "Is something wrong?" Hans asked.

Logan didn't smell blood on him, and kind of doubted if this doughy man, who appeared to have spindly arms, could have garroted anyone, especially those solidly built men Marc had captured on film. Somebody else was making a move here, somebody unrelated to those men outside.

Wow - what the hell did Hans have?

"I thought I heard something outside," Logan told him, turning to glance out the window. He couldn't actually see anything, it was too bright in here and too dark out there, but he thought he saw a flicker of movement, and Sid was suddenly saying, "Logan, there's a man advancing on the shop. I won't get to him in -"

The front window shattered, and a silver canister bounced across the floor, spewing out a stream of stinging, sour gas. Tear gas, the kind that hit Logan harder than most.

But it didn't stop him - he knew the agony would be a thousand times worse if he let it continue. Logan darted for the canister, eyes watering and stinging like someone was rubbing salt into them, his nasal passages burning like he was inhaling lava, and picked up the surprisingly hot canister, feeling a layer of skin burn away as he tossed it back out the window. A river of snot and tears seemed to be blinding him and choking him, but he was recovering even as he struggled to breathe. "What the hell is going on?" Hans exclaimed, the fear and anger in his voice quite genuine.

"Behind the counter!" Logan said, grabbing the man and shoving him in that direction. Logan remained where he was, in full view of the broken window. He was essentially inviting a shot, but to come after him they'd have to show themselves, which was the point. As soon as he saw them, this was done.

Sid said in his ear, "I've got the men on foot, but I don't like the look of a car that just - "

Gunshots rang out, muffled pops that were clearly guns with silencers on them (silencers lessened the noise, but didn't make it go away), and Hans finally ducked behind the counter. Logan was tensed for bullets, but it didn't happen, as he heard shouts and breaking glass, and what sounded like ricochets off metal - Sid got in the way? A good bet; bullets held no fear for him. This was followed by sudden acceleration and a screeching of tires on asphalt, as the men had no idea how to deal with this variable and decided that the best way to handle it was with a very hasty retreat.

"Kid, you okay?" Marc asked.

There was a distressingly long pause, but finally Sid, sounding a bit winded, replied, "I'm fine. They got away, but the immediate threat seems to be neutralized."

Logan loved how he couched the terms: "immediate threat". He was allowing the possibility that they could come back, but if they were organized or a big group, that was a good bet. They needed to get out of here and regroup before there was another attack that would definitely blow their cover.

Hans glanced warily over the counter, and asked, "You're all right?"

Logan looked down at himself as if checking to make sure. "Yeah, I guess so."

"How did you … you grabbed that … thing." He was gesturing towards the window, and clearly meant the tear gas canister.

Logan shrugged, and wondered how he could explain getting a face full of tear gas and suddenly being all right. There really was no reason for it, was there? "I used to be in the army." That made no sense at all - how could being in the army have ever prepared him for that? But he figured Hans would grudgingly accept it, mainly because he wanted to accept _something_. Hans stared at him warily, while Logan simply pulled out the cash for the watch and set it down on the countertop. "I thought Zurich was relatively crime free. I had no idea things got this bad."

Hans straightened, blinking in obvious confusion. "Uh, um … this has never happened before. It's very … startling."

"It was."

He dithered, hesitated, clearly not sure what to do. "I suppose I should call the police."

Logan nodded. "It'd be a good idea." He looked at his new antique pocket watch - which was set to the correct time - and said, "I suppose I could see if there's a later flight I can catch …"

"No, no, please go catch your plane," Hans said, almost a little too quickly. He must have suspected the connection to the item he was trying to sell under the counter, and wanted him out of there as soon as possible. "I'm very sorry about all this."

"So am I," Logan said. (In his ear, he heard Marc say, _"All clear. Get your ass outta there, Logan."_) "Are you sure you'll be okay? Do you want me to stay until the police arrive?"

Hans shook his head, and briefly attempted a brave smile that collapsed like a poorly made soufflé. "No, it's all right. Thank you."

Logan took his watch, and after pretending to be reluctant, left the shop, casting several nervous glances at the surrounding streets. Sid had dragged the bodies off to the side, but some left small, smeared trails of blood on the sidewalk. Broken glass glittered like ice, and spent shell casings littered the street like discarded cigarette butts. The dented gas canister was in the gutter on the other side of the street, looking like an oddly shaped beer can.

He ducked down the first side street, and nearly ran face first into Marc and Sid. "Bupkis," Marc told him quietly. "The back room is a storage area full of boxes, and most of it is full of packing material and random crap, none of which looked expensive or likely. The gun oil you were smelling was coming from a shotgun mounted on a rack on the wall. It was well tended, but not recently used."

"So this was pointless?"

"Not exactly. Look what the kid found on the garroted corpse." Marc held out a laminated card towards him, and while it was dark, there was just enough ambient light from the streetlights that he could make out what was on it.

"Now I don't exactly sprechen sie Deutsch, but even I've seen a couple of those words before," Marc said, and there was an edge in his voice that Logan hadn't caught before. He was nervous.

And as his eyes adjusted to the light levels, he could see why. The card identified the holder as Franz Abend, a member of German Intelligence. "Holy shit," Logan gasped, looking at a corpse that was propped up against a building on their right. Correction: not a corpse. He didn't smell dead, and he was pretty sure he saw the small movement of respiration. "This guy was an agent of the German government."

"Shit," Marc cursed, lifting up his goggles briefly to rub his eyes. "Why is the German government watching Hans Naslund? And who the fuck killed him? Do they realize they're messing with government forces? That's just asking to get put through a shredder."

"Maybe we can ask him when he's conscious," Sid said, gesturing back at the man propped against the building.

"Who's that?" Logan wondered, wiping the identity card clear of all their prints before flicking it off to the side. Sid probably didn't have his prints registered with any governments, but Marc probably did, and Logan knew his prints didn't officially exist anywhere, but unofficially existed, only to be accessed by very bad people he really didn't want to deal with at the moment.

"He put the tear gas grenade through the window," Sid said, as blandly as if reporting the weather. "He has a broken arm, dislocated shoulder, and possibly a concussion. I'm sorry, si - Logan, but I had to move fast to intercept him, and I may have hit with more force than intended."

Oh good lord, was the kid actually asking forgiveness?! "This isn't a class in the danger room, Sid, this is real life. Don't apologize for defending an entire fucking street single handedly. And besides, I ain't Captain Buzzkill. He may be in a half body cast for six months, but he's still breathing, so A plus to you."

Sid dipped his head, a gesture that was both acknowledging and embarrassed. He thought being with Angel and his crew had loosened him up a bit about the fighting thing, but that dealt with demons and the undead and whatnot; Sid must have categorized them differently.

Logan was startled to hear sirens rapidly approaching. Had Hans really called the cops? No, probably not; probably someone heard the gunshots and instantly reported them. Zurich wasn't exactly the worst part of Compton - gunshots got noticed here, and people probably freaked.

Logan crouched in front of the injured man and lightly slapped his face, seeing if he could bring him around. When that didn't work, he grabbed his obviously dislocated shoulder and squeezed. He started awake with an inarticulate shout of pain, but his eyelids barely stayed open, fluttering like broken wings. "What's your name?" He asked first in German, then Swiss German.

Even in this low light, his pupils looked far too wide for his eyes, and what fell out of his rubbery, drool spattered lips were nonsense syllables, although Logan thought the accent was Swiss. His eyelids shut and he slumped farther down the wall, and Logan quickly frisked him, looking for some kind of identification. The guy was a pro: he carried a gun, but not a wallet. "We're getting nothing from him," he told the others, and then gestured that they should take the back way out of there. They did.

The kid was being modest - that guy definitely had a concussion, perhaps even a cracked skull. A hairline fracture at worst, but enough to make him incoherent until he got medical attention.

They stuck to the back streets and alleys until they were far enough from the shop and the police cars to feel safe venturing out, and since night had just fallen, they quickly found crowds of pedestrians to get lost in. They eventually found a cab, and had it take them back to the hotel.

Back in their room, Marc exclaimed, "How many others do you think are in on this?"

Logan looked at him curiously, crossing the room to shut the curtains almost out of reflex. He may not have remembered specific details of espionage, but he remembered random things, such as never leaving windows uncovered if you were near them. You didn't make yourself an easy target ever, no matter how futile the gestures. "What d'ya mean?"

"If the German government's watching Naslund, it's likely others are, aren't they? How likely is it that one government is going to trust another's intelligence service, even if they are allies?"

That was a good point. No, that was a damn fantastic one. Logan sat on the end of the bed and wearily rubbed his own eyes as Sid turned on the nightstand lamp. His eyes had healed from the tear gas a long time ago, but they still felt a little dry. "If the Germans got this intelligence first, they could be hording it. All intelligence agencies are pretty nuts about having a monopoly on intell - knowledge is power and all that."

"But they're on Swiss soil. You tellin' me the Swiss don't know about this?"

Logan rubbed the back of his neck as he thought. Yeah, this was turning uglier by the second. "A coupla possibilities here. One, the Swiss know, and are allowing the Germans to run the op. Two, they're working with the Germans on this, equal but parallel operations. Three, the Swiss don't know at all; the Germans are working sub rosa."

"Which is worse?" Sid wondered. Unlike him and Marc, this wasn't effecting him, perhaps because he didn't realize the stakes. For one thing, if the people that attacked tonight were working for an alternate government, Sid had just assaulted their agents - he could be in a shitload of trouble.

"For us?" Marc replied, not so much sitting on the bed as collapsing on it. "The two of 'em working together. If the Germans are being covert, it works in our favor, 'cause the Swiss'll be pissed when they find out their neighbors are running an op in their country without telling them."

"If that's the case," Logan noted. "We don't know what's going on here." He sighed, as more ugly possibilities popped into his head. "We may not be the only freelancers."

Marc nodded, clearly having thought of that already. "Tear gas boy?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. A drive by sounds more amateurish than flooding a place with tear gas. How many gunmen were in the car, kid?"

"Two," Sid said, taking a seat at the desk across the room. "The driver may have had a gun, but didn't have time to pull it out."

"You made 'em freak?" Marc guessed.

"I stood in the way and they shot me. When it seemed to have no effect, they weren't happy."

Marc let out a small grunt of humor. "They probably thought you were Superman."

"Who?"

Marc waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind. Jeeze, we have got to enhance your education on Western culture."

"Bren tried to do that by taking me to the Halloween parade." Sid scowled in thought, his eyes distant as he seemed to gaze at his own thoughts. "It was ... unusual."

"Halloween parade?" Marc asked Logan.

Logan just knew Marc was going to love this. "The big do in West Hollywood?" Every year for what seemed like a very long time, the gay community of West Hollywood had a huge Halloween party that spilled out into the streets for the entire night, and brought out all sorts, from huge drag queens to gay biker gangs. It was essentially a gay bacchanalia, although in the last few years - according to Bren, at any rate - it had become "highly commercial" and "overloaded with straights looking for a freaky time".

Marc got it, and laughed, slapping his thigh. "Oh my god, kid, Bren dragged you there? That must have been an education."

Sid took that question far more seriously than it merited. "Some men do look remarkably like women. If it wasn't for the size of the Adam's apple, you'd never know."

This made Marc laugh harder, and Logan grimaced down at the carpet, trying not to laugh himself. Thanks to his friends, Sid had gotten an education that could best be called weird: alt rock concerts, demons, and transvestites. If Sid decided he wanted nothing to do with the Western Hemisphere, he supposed he would understand. "Back on topic," Logan said, as soon as he was sure he wouldn't laugh. "We could be involved in deep shit here. We didn't kill the German agent, but we were on the scene. If we're traced, things could get ugly fast."

Marc scratched his neck, which Logan identified as a nervous habit of his. "I know. I can tell Haun the deal's off ... but I am kinda curious what the hell this is all about."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Marc."

"I'm not some fucking pussy, I'm a Scorpion," Marc replied, flashing him a toothy smile. But it was forced bravado; he may have been curious, but he was still worried about it all. They were flirting with disaster.

"We saved his life, didn't we?" Sid asked, almost apropos of nothing.

"What?" Logan asked.

"Naslund. The attack tonight was meant for him, wasn't it?"

And Sid had just made a good point that should have been instantly obvious. Yes, the attack wasn't meant for them, they were just there when it happened. And good thing for Naslund, although he'd never know that. "It must have been. Although the man who gassed him probably meant to take him alive."

"Maybe the shooters were the back up plan," Marc suggested. "Things went tits up, they cleaned the area. No witnesses. They just weren't counting on Mr. Healing Factor and the Bulletproof Kid."

"I'm really not a kid," Sid pointed out, but so mildly it was almost a question.

Logan felt like his brains were going to start leaking out his ears. Rather than have any answers, they just had more questions, and a slippery slope that looked steeper the farther they worked their way down. He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, wondering if he could shove all the questions back in and not care about them. "We need to get while the getting's good. I hate to say it, but we're in way over our heads."

Marc nudged him lightly with his elbow. "Since when are you the cut and run type?"

"Since someone started garroting intelligence agents, that's when. No good is coming of this."

"But some already has," Sid said. "We saved Naslund's life, yes?"

Oh goddamn it.He got up, and said, "I need a beer. I'll be down in the bar."

"I'll join ya once I catch a shower," Marc said. "I smell like dust. And hey, maybe you wanna change your shirt or something, bud - you smell like tear gas."

He was right. Logan had gotten strangely accustomed to the smell. He could probably rub tear gas directly in his eyes now and wouldn't be effected by it - sometimes his healing factor did have its uses.

So after changing into clothes that wouldn't be rated a toxic event, he went downstairs to the hotel bar, which oddly enough replicated the interior of a British pub, with lots of dark wood and dim lighting, even a dartboard that had never really been used. He sat at the end of the bar, far from everyone (and the entrance), and had the blond, blue eyed bartender - another excellent example of Swiss masculinity - keep setting him up with the strongest beers they had. The bar wasn't very crowded, not yet anyways, and the relative peace was kind of nice. Soft classic rock music played in the background, and Logan knew he was deliberately distracting himself by wondering why no band had ever covered "No Sugar Tonight".

He was trying to imagine what would happen if he told Marc he was taking Sid and going - could he even do that to Marc, even if it was ostensibly for his own good? - when a lean, dark haired, blandly handsome man in a reasonably classy off the rack suit came in and took the leather stool right next to his. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks and looked like a normal businessman relaxing after a hard day at work ... only Logan could smell the gun oil on him. A quick glance confirmed the bulge of a shoulder holster.

He noticed Logan glaring at him, and waited for the bartender to walk away before saying quietly, "Don't worry, Wolverine, I'm not going to cause trouble. I'm only here to talk."

Oh shit. He knew who he was. Government? The short, neatly swept back hair made him think so.

He put his fist on the man's thigh, keeping his arm under the bar so the bartender couldn't see, and muttered, "I have a claw right over your femoral artery. Call your dogs off, or you're the first to go."

The man swallowed hard; Logan watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he glanced at his leg, then pretended to swirl his drink around in his glass. Nervous sweat beaded on his forehead, and he could tell from the way his hazel eyes were looking inward that he was calculating his chances of getting out of this. He slipped a hand casually off his drink, and he knew the man was considering grabbing his arm, pulling it off.

As if. "Do ya really think you're faster than me, bub?" And as he said that, he gave him a wicked, unfriendly little smile, and the stink of fear rose off him, sharp and sad. "Now, start talking, or I start stabbing."

Actually, he wasn't inclined to start stabbing in the bar if he didn't have to, but there was no way the guy knew that, and his reputation was bad enough that he was sure the guy believed him.

Besides, if the guy did press his luck, he'd be lucky to be getting home with one leg.


	4. Chapter 4

2

The man's name was Johannes, and he didn't identify who he was working for, but Logan guessed just from his accent that he was working with the Swiss government.

Apparently they knew all about him working for a "covert military organization", but before Logan could point out he didn't work for them anymore, the man himself admitted that they knew he had "signed up" with the X-Men, and assumed his "allegiances" had switched. But they weren't happy having a man of his "reputation" in their country.

Not once did Logan take his fist off his leg. He casually sipped his beer, and told him, "I'm here helping a friend. It's a free country. I'll leave when I'm ready to leave."

Johannes squirmed on his stool, but Logan kept his fist firmly in place. He didn't think he was getting out of it that easily, did he? "At any other time I'd agree with you, but your presence now … could be a … complication."

Those pauses were fun. He loved how not saying something could actually, ironically, say a lot. "Who killed the German agent? Do you know?"

That startled him. He straightened suddenly, and glanced out of the corner of his eye as if to make sure no one could overhear him. "Why were you there tonight?"

"I was buying a watch. Why the fuck were you guys there?"

"We weren't. And you have to understand having you in the area at the time makes you a suspect."

He chuckled darkly. "You gonna bluff, do better than that. Everybody knows garroting isn't my style. I didn't get my _reputation _by strangling people or cutting their throats with piano wire. Try again."

"You are _known_," he insisted. "You make people nervous. You could screw something up."

"What? Give me a head's up and I'll stay out of the way."

He shook his head, finding the courage to take a drink of his scotch. "You know it doesn't work that way."

"What I don't get is why German intelligence would be interested in an antiques dealer. So it can't be him they want, but someone else … this is a sting, isn't it? You're trying to net someone else."

He just stared straight ahead, as if captivated by the glasses hanging upside down over the bar. "I wouldn't even speculate,"

"But I will. So who are you guys after exactly? Must be a pretty big deal."

In an effort to make him shut up about this, Johannes said, apropos of nothing, "Do you know you're still on Interpol's hot list as an assassin?"

He glared at him, even as he felt a nervous twinge in his stomach. No, he didn't know that. "Shouldn't I be listed "inactive"?"

It was Johannes turn to chuckle. "Oh yes, because Interpol's so forgiving like that. You do know what gets most assassins listed inactive, don't you?"

Yes, he did. "Death."

"You look remarkably alive to me."

He shot him a harsh glance. "I'm not with the Organization anymore, and you all fucking know it. I'm not the same person."

"Blood and history doesn't wash away that easily; ask Lady Macbeth. Look, I'm sure you're … reformed, or whatever you want to call it -"

"I was brainwashed," he snarled. "I don't remember my own fucking name. I don't even remember being in this country before, although I'm pretty sure I have been. I'm not saying that excuses anything I've done, I'm just saying I'm a completely different person now."

He took that all in with some obvious skepticism, but after a moment, he nodded. "Fine. If you are, you should have no problem stepping aside."

"Not until I know what's going on. Someone was killed tonight, and they tried to attack Naslund."

"Why do you care?"

"'Cause they lobbed the tear gas in on me. I ain't an assassin, but I don't appreciate getting gassed."

"You weren't the target; you were just in the way."

"I don't care. I don't like it."

Johannes smirked sourly, almost laughing but unable to. "Just like Interpol won't like it when they hear you're here."

He narrowed his eyes at him. "Is that a threat?"

"I don't threaten," he claimed. Logan wasn't sure he believed him. "I just think it would be in your best interest to leave as soon as possible."

He leaned closer to him, menacing him with his very proximity. "I'm not your problem. Do you understand? Leave me the fuck alone, and I'll try not to get in your way. Okay?"

Johannes shook his head, smiling wanly. "That's not good enough."

"It'll hafta be. I'm not here to cause trouble."

"But wherever you go, there are bodies that follow. That's not a tenable situation."

"There a problem here?" Marc asked, approaching them, giving Johannes a discreet version of the stink eye.

Logan removed his fist from Johannes leg before Marc could see it. "No, just having a friendly chat. But he was just leaving."

Johannes took the hint, but his glare at Logan suggested that this wasn't really over. "Yes, I guess so." He finished his scotch, and got up from his bar stool, trying to hide his relief that his femoral artery was no longer threatened. He would probably not make the mistake of getting within reaching distance of him again. "_Guten abend_."

"And a mighty fine _ride 'em cowboy _to you too," Marc replied, stepping back and keeping an eye on him until he left the bar. As soon as he was gone, Marc took his barstool. "Oink oink, I smell bacon. What did he want?"

Logan wondered what to tell him. Would the truth really do here? What did he have to lose? "He was Swiss Intelligence, I believe. He was giving me a "friendly" - " the air quotes were implied "- warning to back the fuck off. They think I'm going to screw the pooch for them."

"How? What's going on?" The bartender came back down, and Marc did a quick visual appraisal before flashing him his most charming smile and ordering a beer. The bartender got it for him, and smiled in an abashed manner under Marc's intense and clearly very friendly gaze. As he sauntered down to the other end of the bar, Marc said, "Good lord, I love Swiss men. It's like being in a candy store. The chicks ain't bad either."

"You know, you being such a horndog is an offensive stereotype. You should really knock that off," Logan teased.

"As soon as you knock off the beer and stories of snow and hockey pucks, you hoser," he replied, giving him shit eating grin number three. But he quickly dropped it and got back on topic. "So what the hell's going on here, Logan? He give you anything?"

He shook his head, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "He played it close to the vest; he was good. But I think I figured some things out anyways. The Swiss and Germans are working together."

"Damn it."

"And they're trying to rope someone else, one of Naslund's contacts, but I can't tell which one: the guy who he's selling the object for, or the one who wants to buy it."

"Does it really matter?"

That was a good point. "Guess not. Did you know I'm still on Interpol's shit list? As an assassin."

Even through the goggles, Logan got a sense that Marc's eyes were bugging out. "Holy shit! No, I had no idea, man. I haven't hit their site in a while. I just randomly search to make sure I'm not on it."

"You surf their website? I didn't even realize they had a website."

He snorted derisively. "Oh, c'mon grandpa, everybody has a website, even the Luddites. Get with the program."

He supposed he deserved that. He took a swallow of his beer, and admitted, "I could fuck things up for you. Maybe we should call it."

Marc raised an eyebrow at him and shook his head, smirking slightly. "Since when do we give up that easily? Things are just gettin' good, bud - why stop now?"

Marc was a thrill seeker, whether he would admit it or not; he lived for the adrenaline rush of danger and trouble. Extreme sports were for pussies, for cowardly people with no imagination; Marc needed the raw peril of a live shootout and lobbed grenades. The absolute worst part of it? Logan could kind of sympathize. He got a bit of a rush from it too. It hurt when his healing factor kicked in, and yet with it came the endorphins, the flood of adrenaline that tasted like cold, clean metal, and an almost giddy kind of high, the kind that could only come with saying "Fuck you" not only to the entire world but to death itself. Marc didn't have a healing factor, though, so he had no idea where his rush came from, but it did, or else he wouldn't do things like this. Maybe for him, a big "fuck you" to the world alone was enough. "Marc, I'm serious. If Interpol gets involved -"

"Fuck 'em," he answered dismissively. "We've taken on worse."

"It could fuck with your job."

"It could, but it won't. and even if it did, I don't give a fuck. You're my best bud. They fuck with you, they fuck with me."

He snorted, but he knew he was serious, and was touched by the gesture. "Very macho and Clint Eastwood of you."

"Thank you."

After a moment, he turned it into a joke. "Is this a gay thing?"

Marc laughed so hard he almost shot beer out his nose. But while Logan was trying to play it casual, the truth was something was still bothering him. Swiss intelligence was worried he'd be recognized by someone and scare them away - who would recognize him? And why would they be scared? (Okay, maybe that last question answered itself.) That was very curious and very troubling. He wondered if he'd get any sleep tonight.

Who were Swiss and German intelligence after? And why did they think he'd screw everything up?

3

Logan was right - he didn't sleep well, although he wasn't woken up by screaming nightmares, so he figured it actually wasn't too bad, all things considered.

They had no idea where to start next, although following Naslund remained their only lead. So they headed out to his shop, but this time kept their distance.

A good thing, as the police were still hanging around, and Logan had read in the paper that a "German tourist" was murdered, but it was a small column with a singular lack of details. The attack on the shop was never mentioned, although anyone driving by could see the suspiciously large police presence and the busted front window.

They decided to move on to Naslund's home, which was on the outskirts of Zurich, in a more undeveloped area that resembled classic Switzerland, with towering Alpine trees and sprawling meadows, with jagged chunks of grey granite sticking out of the ground like natural cairns. Naslund's home was a small one, not the classic chalet type but more of a featureless, somewhat charmless little box that could have been an above ground bomb shelter if it hadn't been painted robin's egg blue. There was a small, battered Saab in the driveway, and even though there was no urban cover to conceal themselves in, there was a stand of trees across the road where they could hide and watch his home. Logan climbed one of the trees and sat in a concealed branch, aiming the directional mike at his house and wearing an earpiece so whatever was said inside he could hear. What he heard at first was simply a television tuned low to first an inane morning show (every country seemed to have one - it was the great equalizer), and then to an even more inane game show (another great equalizer, along with the shitty sitcom and the annoying talk show).

After about an hour of this he was so bored he was afraid he was going to fall asleep and fall off the branch. Nothing was happening in Naslund's home, he had a numb butt and was risking splinters, and it was cold enough that it was starting to get annoying, making his fingertips almost numb. Marc was lucky; he almost always wore gloves. (Of course that was to keep from accidentally poisoning or paralyzing people, so lucky was a relative term.)

Finally he heard the phone ring in Naslund's house, and even though he only heard Naslund's side of the conversation, it was clear he was talking to someone about buying the "item" (and that's how he referred to it - "the item". Very James Bond of him). After the call, he turned off the t.v., and it sounded like he was getting ready to go out.

Logan packed up the mike and climbed down, informing Marc and Sid of this promising development. Of course tailing him out here was going to be tricky, as there wasn't city traffic to get lost in. But Marc was willing to give it a try.

His solution was to give Naslund a huge lead, keeping him just within view, with the intent of closing the gap when they hit more traffic. Luckily Naslund's beaten up, old maroon colored Saab was easy to track visually, even when they did reach more traffic, and there was some verbal speculation as to where he was heading. He wasn't heading to his shop, that was for damn sure; he was going in the wrong direction.

They had gone beyond Zurich, to another part of the outskirts where traffic thinned out again and the landscape became beautifully stark once more, as cold and clear as the air outside. And it was in this long stretch of nothing that Sid said, almost idly from the backseat of their rental car, "There's another car following Naslund."

He and Marc had been so focused on keeping an eye on the Saab as they let it get farther and farther ahead of them that they hadn't been watching the road behind them, but Sid, initially trained to be a bodyguard, had been keeping an eye on the rearview and side view mirrors the whole time. A quick glance in the rearview, and Logan noticed a familiar car, one he'd seen about ten miles back. "Black BMW?"

He saw Sid nod tersely in the mirror, their eyes meeting briefly. "That's the one."

"Swiss intelligence?" Marc asked.

"I dunno. Kid, where'd we pick them up?"

"Back in the city proper, about fifteen minutes ago. They've been hanging back, but echoing every lane change that Naslund makes. It's unclear if they're aware of us."

Echoing every lane change? Even Marc wasn't doing that; that was a dead giveaway. Either that was someone's overeager, rookie mistake, or they just weren't accustomed to tailing people in a professional manner, and the latter seemed more likely. "I don't think it's Swiss intelligence," Logan said, as the BMW sped up and overtook them in the opposite lane, heading for Naslund's car like a heat seeking missile. For the moment, they were the only three cars on the road, save for a huge tanker truck ahead of Naslund, and a little green Fiat far behind all of them.

"Oh fuck," Marc exclaimed, suddenly putting pedal to the metal. "He's gonna ram him."

As if just by saying it he made it so, the BMW did in fact smash into the rear of Naslund's car, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass explosively loud, followed by the scream of tires on the asphalt as the little Saab spun around several times before veering off to the side of the road. It looked like his airbag deployed, so he didn't go shooting out the windshield, and while the airbag deployed for the BMW too, it was almost instantly punched down as the driver slewed to the side of the road, as if attempting to block Naslund in.

"Should I ram them?" Marc wondered.

"And give them warning? Fuck no," Logan replied. "Pull over."

Marc did, pulling over to the soft shoulder several yards down from both cars as three men got out of the BMW, pulling black ski masks down over their faces and pulling out a variety of Walthers and Glocks. "Are these the same guys from last night?" Logan asked Sid.

The kid shrugged, grimacing in embarrassment that he couldn't really answer the question. "I don't know. All white men in ski masks look alike to me."

Ha! The kid was developing a sense of humor. That was an improvement.

He and Marc got out of the car at the same time, and Marc got their attention by shouting, "Hey, you guys need help? Should I call 999 or something?"

What struck Logan instantly was the fact that they understood English, as they all looked at him sharply, aiming their guns in his direction. "Get back in your car and drive away," one man ordered. Surprisingly, his accent was Lithuanian.

Logan had slammed his car door and started walking towards them, and the man swung the aim of his gun off Marc, aiming it at him. "Stay back," he demanded. With their gazes focused on him, they didn't notice Marc, standing behind his own open car door, pulling his own gun, a sturdy, nasty Magnum.

Logan ignored the order and kept on coming. "This is your only warning. Put down the guns and tell us who you work for, and maybe we'll let you walk away."

The Lithuanian snorted in disbelief and shot him, the bullet slamming into his chest. It was a lucky shot, missing bone entirely and punching through his chest walls and slamming out his back, the hot, sharp pain making him drop to one knee. But even as the pain reverberated throughout his body, he felt the rush of heat from healing rushing in, dragging the high behind it. "Get back in your car and drive off. This does not concern you."

Logan pushed himself back up to his feet and started walking towards the men again, which seemed to stun them into paralysis. "Gonna hafta do better than that, asshole."

Sid had gotten out of the car and was now walking towards them on the opposite side. They shot at him too, but the bullet ripped through his shirt and then bounced off his skin, barely making him blink, certainly not making him stop. Using Sid as a cover, Marc took aim with his Magnum and shot the Lithuanian in the shoulder - it dissolved in a sudden spray of blood and bone, and he fell back against the car screaming in pain, the Glock dropping from his hand. "Ooh," Marc taunted. "I bet that's hot and hurts and stuff."

The other two gunmen looked between Sid and Logan in wide eyed horror, aiming their guns between them, and looking at each other with unspoken questions. "Drop your weapons and we won't hurt you," Logan said, wondering if he was lying or not. (He wasn't sure; he supposed he'd find out.) "Who do you work for?"

Then men fired, hitting both him and Sid, but the bullets continued to bounce off Sid like he was made of depleted uranium, and most of the bullets that hit Logan this time just ripped through his skin and hit bone underneath, either shattering against the adamantium or rebounding off of it. The pain, sharp and sudden, and the smell of his own blood was just making him angrier. He sprung his claws and the men jumped, momentarily ceasing fire in their shock. "Who do you work for?!" he roared, letting his anger communicate that this was the last time he would ask.

There was a small explosion as Marc shot out one of the BMW's rear tires, and the men looked torn as to what to do. Now their escape route was being cut off, and they were being advanced upon by men who didn't give a shit about bullets. This was a classic no win situation, and the stink of panic coming from the indicated they weren't prepared for it.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?!" The Lithuanian shouted, grabbing his bloody, mangled shoulder. "Shoot them!"

But as Marc took out their second rear tire, they looked confused and angry about their situation. "We're just wasting bullets!" One of them shouted at the man in broken Russian.

Suddenly Logan heard a familiar noise, faint but rapidly approaching: a helicopter, its rotors slicing the air. He glanced back at Marc, who shared a wary, quizzical look with him.

In general, an approaching helicopter wasn't a good sign. In fact, Logan was willing to go out on a limb and say things had just taken a sudden turn for the worse.


	5. Chapter 5

One of the gunmen looked like he had the relatively bright idea of going for Naslund's car (they were immune to bullets, but he probably wasn't), but he'd barely gotten three steps towards the Saab when the ground exploded by his feet, and he jumped back a step. "You didn't say "Mother may I"," Marc taunted, waving the barrel of the Magnum at him.

Logan caught Sid staring at him out of the corner of his eye, and he knew what the kid was waiting for: permission. Logan gave it, giving him a small nod, and the kid rushed forward to disarm them. It was incredibly fast, mainly because Sid just didn't dick around. They shot him at point blank range, which did no better than shooting him from far away, and Sid ripped the gun out of one man's hand while kicking the gun out of another man's hand, and just as he was bringing his leg down, he stomped on the shoulder injury of the man sitting up against the car, making him scream and drop the gun he had just pulled. Logan stalked in after him, in no hurry - he was there to terrify them, not beat them up.

Sid took one of the guns and shoved it in the waistband of his pants, but he simply kicked the others pistols under the car and stepped back, giving him room. Logan rammed his claw just underneath the wound of the guy that Marc shot, and he was still in too much pain and lacking enough air to scream again as he hauled him to his feet. "Who do you work for?" he spat in his face. "Tell me or I'll start putting new holes in you."

The Lithuanian stared at him wild eyed, his eyes glazed with pain. The sound of the helicopter was getting louder. "You're mutants," he said. "Fucking mutants."

"No duh, dickhead. Now who the fuck are you?"

He attempted to become macho and bull his way through this, but it was almost impossible to do. Blood and drool had soaked the bottom of his ski mask, and was now starting to drip off his chin. "You can't win this. I don't care what kinda freak you are, you can't -"

"We don't wanna win," Logan snapped, shaking him. The pain of it startled a sharp noise out of him, kind of like a squeaky hinge. "Who do you work for?!"

"Black Star!" He shouted, half in pain, half in rage. "We will wipe you out! The scourge of the earth will not be suffered to live!"

"Black Star?" Logan repeated. "Isn't that a beer?"

"Holy shit," Marc exclaimed. "Black Star's a terrorist group, man. They want independence for Whogivesacrapistan or something."

"Mutant pigs!" He spat over his shoulder at Marc. "The streets will run red with your blo -" The last word cut off in a shriek as Logan pulled out his claws with excessive force, and he let the Lithuanian drop back to the ground.

"Yeah yeah yeah, we're all dead, blah blah blah. I've been hearing that for fifty fucking years and it still isn't true." Logan told him, giving him a kick in the gut out of sheer bitchiness. He then turned to the closest uninjured man and held up his bloody claws. "You a righty or a lefty? Tell me what yer after, or I'm gonna decide for ya."

The chopper was so loud now that Logan knew it was headed right for this spot. So Black Star had a helicopter - good for them. Now, if they could only get a tank, they might be ready to play with the big boys. Logan looked at Sid, caught his eye, and jerked his head back sharply, sending the tacit message that he should back off. He frowned, not happy about it, but he obeyed, retreating towards the rental car.

He glared at the terrorist, who had wide hazel eyes and an ill fitting mask. "You don't know what you're after?" the man asked, perfectly aghast. "Why are you after it then?"

"What the fuck do you call it?"

"The package," he said, in a way that suggested he thought he was talking to a mental patient.

Logan threw up his hands in frustration. "The item, the package! What the fuck _is_ this thing? Give it a name!

"Holy fuck!" Marc shouted. "Logan, move it!"

The chopper sounded fairly close, so he looked back over his shoulder and saw it was actually a bit farther away than he'd imagined - it looked like an old Soviet 'copter, the kind you could pick up cheap on the black market if you didn't mind it being hellaciously noisy and its occasional tendency to plummet out of the air like a stone. Did it ..? Yes, someone was leaning out the side, holding a shoulder mounted rocket launcher.

So, Black Star _was _doing pretty well for itself, huh?

There was no time to move at all. The man in the chopper fired, and Logan saw it coming at a speed that the chopper could never match, even if slingshot by the Earth's gravity. Although it would do no good at all, he jumped aside just as the world exploded in sound and heat.

He was unconscious for a bit, but he didn't realize it until he regained consciousness, his body aching and the smell of burned flesh, hair, and metal filling his nostrils. He opened his eyes to find Marc crouching over him. "You know how whacked out creepy it is to watch your skin grow back?" he said.

"Then don't watch," Logan snapped, rubbing his eyes. When he thought he was ready, he sat up, and found his shirt had been all but burned off, and his jeans had been charred well enough that one of the legs was still smoking. As soon as his eyes focused, he saw that where the BMW had been was a smoldering crater in the ground. There were some bits of terrorists about, but mostly just a random hand and a bit of anonymous charred organ. The car had been essentially vaporized, but there were small pieces of metal that were still smoking or actively burning, filling the air with acrid black smoke. "You guys okay?"

"We're fine. Even Naslund's Saab made it, although he's going to need some body work."

A glance at the Saab showed that all the windows had been shattered, and there were some smoldering bits of metal scattered about the hood and the trunk from the obliterated BMW. Sid was standing near by, keeping an eye out for any more marauders, but it seemed unlikely at the moment. "Black Star really doesn't like its people talking, does it?"

Marc grunted in agreement, looking at the crater. "Either that, or someone else didn't like the competition."

"You can take the Swiss and German governments out of the running. Even if they were inclined to use rocket launchers on suspects, I doubt they'd do it in a decommissioned Soviet chopper."

Marc nodded in agreement. "You know, I'm beginning to think this has nothing to do with Nazi loot."

"Jeeze, ya think?" he replied crabbily, spitting blood out of his mouth.

They heard the noise of a car door opening, and turned to watch Naslund staggered dazedly out of his car, looking around at all the destruction as he held a hand to a bloody gash on his forehead. His eyes scanned the horizon before scudding over towards them, finally settling on Logan in a glazed kind of shock. "You're not a German businessman, are you?"

Logan shook his head. "Sorry."

But really, if that was the hardest truth he had to deal with today, he was a very lucky man.

4

Naslund didn't think he needed a hospital, but Marc thought he did need a few stitches. Still, Marc just taped a gauze pad to Naslund's forehead, and they took him with him as they drove off, as Naslund wasn't sure his car would start. And then there was also that problem of people trying to kill him. Since Logan had twice been at the scene of these attacks and seemed to have some part in repelling them, Naslund was inclined to trust him.

They told him they worked for an agency they couldn't name (mainly because Logan didn't trust Marc to come up with a name that wasn't outrageous, such as Crossdressers United), but were interested in the item he was trying to sell. This confused Naslund a great deal. "You're interested in a music box?"

Unbelievable. The item in question was a music box. Okay it was a rare one, a Swiss one dating from 1865, with a polished mahogany case, highly prized amongst collectors and apparently worth quite a bit. There were rumors that it had belonged to a family that perished in the Holocaust, but he was unable to verify ownership of the box. (Or so he said.) He was selling it for a man who wished to remain anonymous, and was a "friend of a friend", so he only knew him as "Mr. Bauer". As for the buyer, he was an "overseas businessman" who was working through a broker named Nilsson. He'd been on his way to meet Nilsson, so they decided to go ahead and take him there.

But this made no fucking sense whatsoever. Terrorists would have no interest in a music box; nor should anyone else beyond some sad sack collector. So why were people dying over this fucking thing? Why were the governments of Switzerland and Germany also interested? Logan glanced at Marc, who only shrugged - he didn't get it either. And Naslund wasn't lying; he knew for a fact that he wasn't lying. Naslund was just as puzzled as the rest of them. Who was risking an international incident over a music box?!

Things got worse. They arrived at the place that was supposedly Nilsson's, only they found a tiny shop with a door off its hinges, and Logan smelled blood, dust, and cordite in the little shop, although there was no sign of gunfire or blood. There was also no sign of Nilsson, and his phone was off the hook.

After a little discussion, they convinced Naslund that he had to get the music box and turn it over to them now, until they could figure out what the fuck was going on. They also convinced him he had to call Bauer and find out what the hell he was actually handling for him.

First, the music box. Naslund was careful to use only people he trusted in shipping and handling material, and since Bauer had insisted the box be held under "strictest security" (he assumed he was paranoid about his investment), Naslund used a shipper who was known not only to be discreet but to have some of the best security in all of Switzerland as a holder for the object. The fact that he said "best security" gave Logan a really bad feeling, like they were taunting some luck god. (Was there a luck god? Well, Ganesha - although Bob said he was really an entropy god. Whatever the fuck, it just seemed like Ganesha would've been pissed at the hubris of this proclamation.)

What they found was a dockside office that was the scene of a massacre. The place had been shot up so badly that some of the holes in the walls were as big as his fist, and a couple of the guys had been shot up to the point where you couldn't make out their facial features. They were fresh on the scene, considering the wisps of smoke still lingering in the air, but not fresh enough to encounter any of the gunmen. All they found was corpses (about a dozen in all) and ransacked offices, one after another, and a safe whose door had been blown off. Naslund said the music box had been in the safe, and promptly passed out from having to be around so many dead bodies.

Marc carried Naslund out to the car and they drove out ahead of police sirens. "What the fuck now?" Marc wondered. "Bad guys got the box."

"But now they have to get it out of the country," Logan said, thinking aloud. "I'm betting that won't be easy. Also, we really don't know who has the box now or what their intentions with it are."

Marc gave him a sidelong glance. "You don't think Black Star has it?" It sounded like a question, but it wasn't." What did you pick up that I didn't?"

"Black Star wanted Naslund alive," he said. "They could have killed him when they ran him off the road, but I really believe they meant to kidnap him."

Marc thought about that, then nodded slowly. "They needed him to tell them where the box was, 'cause they didn't know. But these people seemed to know where it was."

"Another group, but one just as ruthless - they didn't want to risk leaving living witnesses."

"More terrorists, or freelancers like us?"

Logan shrugged reluctantly and sunk back in his seat, feeling a bit sour at not having any further answers. But didn't he know someone who might? "Best case scenario, they're mercenaries. They'll want to get it to their client, and it might not be that cut and dried. Worse case scenario, they're an experienced terrorist group who can run anything through any country's borders."

There was something he hadn't told Marc, because he hadn't known what to say. The safe had smelled … funny. He knew the smell vaguely, but couldn't place it, couldn't name it, couldn't say why he knew it. But he knew smelling it it wasn't a fucking music box, and it was incredibly bad news; in fact, it set off every internal emergency alarm he had. But he couldn't cough up a name to go with the scent, so he decided to wait until he could before letting Marc know.

They went back to the hotel, because they didn't know what else to do. Besides, they were dragging Naslund around with them, and the sweatshirt Marc had found him to wear (in lieu of his own burned shirt) was way too tight and really starting to annoy him. While changing his clothes, he asked Marc to find a direct line phone number to Swiss intelligence.

In a technical sense, you could look up their number in a phone book, but it wouldn't take him where he needed to go. Marc was incredibly talented in finding out things he shouldn't know, so by the time Logan was pulling down his new t-shirt, Marc had the number for him.

Logan called it and got a receptionist he quickly flustered by his insistence on leaving a message for an operative he only knew as Johannes. "Write this down, 'cause he needs to hear this precisely. Tell him Wolverine needs to meet him in the bar. It's urgent. If you talk to the right one, he'll know what it means." It was as rude as hell, but he hung up before she could insist she had no idea what he was talking about.

Marc looked at him from across the room. "You sure about this?"

He shrugged. "We don't really have a choice, do we?" And that was the shittiest thing about all of this.

Down in the bar, he had a beer, and the bartender from last night decided to talk to him about his "cute friend", clearly meaning Marc. He assured the guy that Marc would be down later, and thought he was attractive as well. Man, how did gay guys just know each other? It wasn't like Marc was flaming, or even the bartender. How did they know? Was there a secret handshake or something?

On the plus side, since the bartender was interested in Marc, he got superb service. After an hour, Johannes entered the bar and took a seat at a small table near the back. Logan got up and drifted back there, aware that Johannes wanted to keep his distance from him since last time, and putting a table between them was the best thing he could do under these circumstances.

As soon as he sat down across from him, Johannes fixed him with an evil glare. "I thought I told you to go."

"We have Naslund," he said, ignoring the jibe. "You need to take him into protective custody."

This news seemed to surprise him. His brown eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, his posture still military rigid. "We thought he was dead. We found his car abandoned near the … wait a second, were you there?"

"Where he was run off the road by Black Star? Yeah, we were - that's why he's not dead."

Johannes' look became strangely stark. "Black Star? You know who attacked him?"

"Before their compatriots killed them, we made 'em talk."

"We? You mean Marcus Drury and the Eden kid?"

It was Logan's turn to glare at him evilly. "You've researched us."

"We're an intelligence agency, Wolverine; that's what we do. The problem is, we were unable to confirm the specific identity of the Eden kid. The Rahjani ones look a great deal alike."

"You're a racist bastard, aren't you?"

He bristled at the accusation. "Don't slander me. I'm just saying -"

"I'm not giving you his name. Keep them out of this. This is about me."

Johannes tapped his fingers anxiously on the table and continued glaring at him like he was the most vermin ridden piece of meat he'd ever seen. "I'd never have ascribed noble traits to you. Suicidal ones, yes, but not those."

"Somebody has the box, but we don't know who. We - _I_ assume it's not Black Star, because they couldn't find their own assholes with a flashlight, a global positioning system, and a head start. Do you know who has it?"

His lips tightened to a thin line, and he shook his head faintly. "We're treading old ground here -"

"Suck it up," he snapped, not bothering to hide his irritation. "I know this stuff is fucking dangerous; I've smelled it."

Johannes's look was simply incredulous. "You've _smelled_ it?"

"And you know I can help you. Unlike the rest of your people, I'm not easy to kill, and you know that. I'm also expendable, if worse comes to worst."

"You're also a civilian."

"For the moment. But if your investigations are worth shit, you know I used to work for Canadian Intelligence. In fact, I just did a gig for them not long ago hunting down some terrorists, although it was under the table so they probably won't officially confirm it, but we're all allies, right? I can understand if you distrust the Americans, but fuck, I'm Canadian - everybody likes us."

Johannes looked down into his glass of scotch and shook his head, but in a way that Logan figured meant he was thinking about it. "You know there's protocol, rules to follow, and this violates every single one."

"So? We work this under the table. I won't even mention it to Marc and the kid - this'll just be between us." Of course he was lying, but there was no way for Johannes to know that. But he knew he could trust Marc and Sid, while Swiss Intelligence didn't know shit about them save for hard facts that really didn't paint an accurate picture.

Johannes bought himself some time by having a sip of his scotch, looking at everyone else but him as he considered it. "No. I know you have a background in intelligence, but there's no way this could work. It would be trouble."

"For you, you mean," he replied, although not as angrily as he could have. He did understand - Johannes's job would be on the line if things fucked up royal. "You need help, Johannes, and don't deny it. Black Star used a rocket on your soil, and I believe Zurich's homicide rate has just jumped up a million fold. You can blame the aftermath all on me - it ain't like I don't have worse on my record. I won't sell you out." He sat forward, and belatedly wondered why he was pressing so hard for putting his own balls on the line. "I have skills that could help you, and you know it."

He continued tapping his fingers on the table, and his eyes were sharp, boring into him like lasers, trying to discern his intentions. "Why do you care? Why do you want to help?"

Logan shrugged, mainly because he didn't know himself. "Because I can. Also, I don't appreciate being blown up."

At that, he raised an eyebrow at him, but then looked towards the bar, sipping his scotch once more. After a moment, he asked, "You can smell it? Can you track it by smell?"

Funny - how did he know that that would be the first thing he'd be interested in? "In an urban setting? Only in relatively close proximity. But if anyone's been exposed to it recently, I'll know right away. I'll smell it all over them."

Johannes looked back at him now, his eyes bright with interest. "That's a very … unusual talent."

"It comes in handy sometimes." He took a gulp of beer, and asked, "So what was it I was smelling? What's really in the box?"

Logan was equally curious to see if Johannes would tell him the truth.


	6. Chapter 6

Johannes barely glanced at him before looking away. "I can't tell you."

"Bullshit. If you want my help -"

"No," he insisted. "I mean I really can't tell you. We have conflicting intell."

Logan really wished he was surprised, but he wasn't. The thing about intelligence work was there was often a lot more uncertainty than the movies and spy novels would leave you to think. Sometimes all you had were really good guesses. "So you're after something and you don't know what it is? Come on! You have some idea. It's not just a fucking music box."

He thought about it for a while, and Logan let him, mainly because he had no choice in the matter. After about a minute, he said, "We know it's a weapon. We believe that a Russian arms dealer was using the box to smuggle weapons out of their country, but neglected to notice that the box itself was a prized object. At some point along the way it was recognized for what it was and was stolen, but for its music box properties alone. Only certain people knew what was actually in the box."

"Such as Black Star and a few other groups."

He nodded. "We believe that Black Star may have been the ones the weapon was intended for."

"So we're talking something small but extremely deadly." That really didn't leave a lot options. "Biological weapon?"

"Speculation is leaning that way," he admitted. "If we could find the arms dealer we could probably figure it out for ourselves, but our last intell on him has him getting lost in Kazakhstan."

"Deliberately lost, or was he disappeared?" Angry clients, one who were supposed to get the weapon but didn't, could easily send him on a permanent vacation.

Although it clearly pained him to do so, Johannes shrugged. "We're still investigating. What we don't know could fill a bigger file than what we do know."

"Shit," he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. Being blown up never did much good for his eyes either. He really had to stop getting in the way of explosives. "Are the borders locked down?"

"Are you kidding? We're not totally incompetent."

"Good, so you're scanning everything for biological weapons."

"Everything we can. But if they're professionals, we don't expect them to make an end run for the border, not when the alert is so high."

He nodded in agreement. "They'll wait 'til the heat's off. So we still have a chance to find it."

"If we can find them."

Logan gulped down the rest of his beer, and let the mug clunk heavily to the table. "You have the resources I don't. You give me a possible location, and I'll do the rest."

Johannes scoffed. "You think it's just that easy?"

He fixed him with a hard look. "What happens if they unleash that weapon while cornered? Lots of your people die. You know what happens if they unleash that weapon on me?"

"You die."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Healing factor, remember? I just might convince them their product is defective before they all die a grisly, horrible death. I'm your best shot at containing it, and you know it." He stood up, and dropped a napkin with his cell phone number on it. "Call me when you get some solid intell. I'll get your weapon for you."

Johannes studied him suspiciously. "Just like that? What do you want in return?"

"Get me off Interpol's shit list."

He chuckled faintly. "Now wait a minute. We can't -"

"Yeah, I think you can," he interrupted. "And that's my price. I do something for you, you do something for me, we're even. Call me if you want to do business." And with that he left, not even bothering to give Johannes a second glance.

Maybe it was arrogant of him - no, it was definitely arrogant of him - but he knew if Swiss intelligence wasn't even completely sure what they were dealing with, they were desperate. And he was the go to guy for desperate times. It was perhaps his true mutant "gift".

Logan got the call in the morning, just as he was eating breakfast. (That figured.)"We've intercepted some chatter," Johannes said, with no foreplay. "It sounds like some mercenaries have grabbed the weapon, and are going to be doing an exchange at a bank downtown."

"A bank?" he exclaimed in disbelief, earning interested looks from both Marc and Sid. He'd told them of his deal with Johannes, and Marc hadn't liked it one bit, as he felt Logan would just get screwed over by the Swiss. Logan felt like making a joke about Marc and the bartender, who'd seemed awfully cuddly last night, but decided he really didn't want to get paralyzed and kept his mouth shut. "Why the hell would they do the exchange there?"

"Our best guess? Public exposure."

"Oh yeah, that would make sense." These mercs must have been fairly clever. An exchange in a public place would force a lot of people's hands. Neither the Swiss or Germans could be bold about moving in, for fear of civilians getting in the crossfire, especially if the group got desperate and decided to unleash the weapon. Terrorist groups like Black Star would also be reluctant to expose themselves so boldly, especially since they could guarantee the situation would be monitored by intelligence agents whether they moved in or not. It was the type of risky move that could really pay off if you knew what you were doing.

Which was the problem. Did these clowns really know what they were doing, or were they simply too clever by half?

"We don't have an exact time, except we assume it will take place this afternoon," Johannes continued. "If you get within proximity, can you tell who has had contact with the box?"

"I told ya I could. I don't care if they duck into the kitchen of a Hungarian restaurant, once I smell 'em, they're mine."

Johannes exhaled slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath for some time. "We don't want civilian casualties. We can't aff -"

"I'm not some fucking maniac," he snapped irritably. "I know what I'm doin'. Have you talked with Interpol yet?"

There was a long pause. "Yes. We talked with Canadian Intelligence as well. Your declassified records are promising, although ... I had no idea you were that old."

He wondered suddenly how far back those declassified records went. Did they declassify any for the past fifty years? Maybe not; maybe they were still considered too sensitive. "Oil of Olay and plastic surgery. Can't go wrong with either." Marc must have known what that was in reference to, because he flashed him a big smart ass grin. Sid just looked mildly puzzled, which was almost his default setting.

There was a long pause on Johannes' part, probably because he had no idea what to say. What did he think he was, a hundred years old? (Well, come to think of it, that was probably a good guess.) So Logan prompted, "Give me the address of the bank."

He sincerely hoped he didn't regret this. But if he did, it was just a small thing to add to an already voluminous pile.

5

Now

Although he never really lost consciousness, Logan took the brief respite that being shot multiple times gave him to consider whether or not this was part of the group's plan, or a third party interception.

Marc had stayed on the outside of the bank doing surveillance - he said he could identify a fellow merc on sight - while he and Sid went in to scope out the inside of the bank. An old one in the heart of the commercial district, it was actually laid out like a minor palace, with high ceilings and lots of marble, everything tasteful and aching with wealth. Swiss bank accounts were famed for a reason, and it was reflected in the architecture. The heat was kept low, so it seemed a little chilly, reflecting the iciness of the white and pale beige color scheme. There were maybe a dozen patrons as he and Sid entered, and they did their best to look inconspicuous among the half dozen or so patrons, all so expensively and elegantly dressed in business attire Logan realized he'd made a horrible mistake. Sid was young enough to pass himself off as shabby chic, but he was too fucking old and genuinely shabby to fit in with this group.

But before he could worry about it much, he caught a whiff of that scent again. The smell from the safe.

It wasn't a biological weapon, but it was something just as bad, just as deadly, although he still had no name to put to it. It was a man in a dark coat who just walked passed him towards the clerks; he was trailing that scent. Logan followed him with his eyes, trying to see if he could spot the telltale bulge of a holstered weapon, when a high pitched noise almost above his range of hearing started, making him pause and look around. Before he could figure out a source, men in dark jackets with a distinctive bulge beneath their black shirts burst in with their XM8 Lightweight automatic rifles and ordered everyone down on the floor. Two of them were issuing orders while another chained and padlocked the doors of the bank, so even if someone thought they could make a break for it, they'd never get very far. This was accomplished in under a minute. Either they were well drilled, or they were true professionals.

Logan was about to charge them, figuring with surprise on his side he could get them before they could hurt anyone, but he stopped short as he smelled the Semtex. The bulges beneath their shirts weren't body armor - they were explosive suicide belts. Was this the more competent part of Black Star, or someone else entirely? He wasn't sure.

Which led to him and Sid being stuck inside the bank as the deal either went horrifically bad, or went according to plan - Logan didn't rule that out. The bank robbery was a distraction, one crime to cover a even bigger one - the smuggling of a dangerous weapon out of the bank. If they knew that the authorities were onto them, this was a huge complication; police would get involve, claim jurisdiction here, take over tactical and negotiation from any intelligence officials foolhardy enough to try and insist that a bank robbery and a hostage situation was nothing but window dressing that should be ignored. Yes, these people were professionals, be they terrorists or mercenaries.

The American was wearing a laptop satchel over his back and shoulder, and he reeked quite strongly of that weapon smell. He had it, didn't he? In the bag. It made Logan wonder if the weapon had been hidden in the bank vault or a safe deposit box shortly after its extraction from the docks. That way the object would be safe, no matter how many people were captured or killed.

After he was shot Logan dutifully slumped to the floor, and listened to the horrified screaming of some of the female hostages that was quickly shouted down by the gunmen, who told them in no uncertain terms that they either shut up or joined him in death.

Logan had fallen face down, his arm in front of his head, so he had the ability to look at a portion of the bank without anyone being aware that he could. He could see some of the hostages, the mercenaries pacing back and forth. "I don't know if that'll kill him," the American admitted, then stepped over Logan and fired two shots into his back. One just ripped open flesh on his side before burying itself in the floor, while the other shattered on an adamantium vertebrae, but seemingly the American didn't notice either. "He's a pretty tough fucker."

One of the Swiss mercenaries said, "No one takes that many shots from an XM8 and lives."

Logan felt like saying _"Oh yeah?" _but kept it to himself, as he wasn't ready to give up the surprise yet.

"Yeah, but he's a mutie," the American said. "They can be weird like that." He paused briefly, and said in English - probably gambling that most of the hostages didn't speak it - "We're going with plan alpha. Two minutes."

"On your mark."

"Mark it, Henrik," the American said breezily, his shoes scuffing on the marble floor as he walked back towards the vault. "We are so outta here."

Two of the guards went with him, leaving only two guards with the hostages.

Perfect.

"Stand up, boy," the one that Logan assumed was Henrik said, in Swiss German first, then in broken English. He was speaking to Sid, who wisely didn't respond to either - if he responded to English, then they'd know he had understood what they were saying. Henrik tried slightly butchered French, and Sid responded to that, standing up.

"How old are you?" Henrik asked, his ineptness in the French language making it actually come out _"How old you are". _

"Twenty one," Sid responded, his French utterly flawless.

"Good, then you have lived some life." (Straight translation: _"Lived some good life have you". _It was like listening to Yoda speak French.)

There was the tearing of Velcro, a sound that seemed to echo in the room, and Sid informed him what was going on (as he couldn't see that side of the room) by saying flatly, without indignance or any emotion at all, "No one will believe I'm a suicide bomber."

Cute - they pick a hostage to be the bomb. That way they get a bloody distraction, yet they all still get out alive.

"Yes they will. You're Arab, yes?" ("_Yes so. You are Arab, yes?")_

Logan turned his head slightly, just enough to see the scene: Henrik was standing in front of Sid, rifle aimed at him, as the second guard stood behind him, starting to wrap his bomb belt around Sid. One of the female hostages sitting on the floor saw him move his head and audibly gasped, but the guards must have thought it was about this whole bomb enterprise, and ignored her.

Logan stood up carefully so as not to slip in his own blood, and met Sid's eyes over Henrik's shoulder as the guard behind Sid looked up and saw Logan as well, his eyes growing wide with horror.

Things happened very fast from then on in.

Sid threw back a hard elbow and caught the guard in the face so bluntly that the crack of his nose was like a gunshot. Henrik pulled the trigger on his rifle, only nothing happened. Possibly because Logan had slashed down a millisecond before and separated his right arm from the rest of his body. Only when it hit the floor with the rifle, a muffled, odd thump, did Henrik think to look to his shoulder. He still had some stump there; Logan had cut it off just below the elbow. He'd already grabbed Henrik's left arm and twisted it behind him, while popping his two end claws, which he held up so they were bracketing Henrik's chin, the third just underneath it, waiting to be sprung. "Tell me about the triggering mechanisms on the belts," he growled in his ear. "Or I'm cutting you open and shoving it inside you just to be safe."

In spite of having his nose broken and taking a hard shot to the head, the guard on Sid was still moving, so Sid snapped off a kick that could have taken his head off his shoulders if his spine wasn't so stubborn. That put the guard down; he slumped to the floor, his leg twitching slightly, and Sid scooped up his XM8 for himself. "Don't worry," he told the startled hostages in French. "I'm an X-Man."

Oddly enough, none of them looked comforted by that statement.

Henrik told him that there was two triggering mechanisms on the belt - one manual, and one timer. There was nothing too fancy about it, so Logan felt confident shredding the belt. He asked Sid to bring over the one the guard dropped, and he did, so he could gut that one too. He left Henrik to bleed on the floor as he went over to the door and used his claws to cut the chain. "Get out of here," he told the hostages. They didn't need to be told twice. Finally that high pitched noise stopped, and he could hear gunfire in the distance, somewhere behind the bank.

He and Sid shared a look, as Logan muttered, "Damn it! Marc's engaged them, and he doesn't know about the Semtex." They started going out the back, the way the American and the rest of the mercenaries had gone, when a loud explosion seemed to make the bank shudder for a moment. As the sound faded, Sid said, "I bet he knows now."

Yeah, that was probably a safe bet.

Logan had to force open the emergency exit door the other mercenaries had used, and as soon as he did, it was easy to see why: part of a car had been wedged up against it. Not a big piece, though, and unlike the rest of the bits, it was just smoldering as opposed to actively on the fire. The door opened on a narrow lane that looked like it had been teleported in from Beirut with the flaming wreckage and bullet casings and body parts strewn about. The smoke from the flaming car parts cast a dark pall on the scene, but he could see enough to tell that everyone who could clear out had already.

"Marc!" he shouted, hoping he wasn't among the body parts. But he didn't think he was, as he'd have recognized the smell of his blood, and besides, Marc wasn't stupid - he would know to keep his distance when he appeared to be outnumbered.

"Well, wasn't that a smack in the ass," Marc said, jogging around the corner, holding a procured XM8. "I had no idea there were some species of robber who blew up when you shot 'em. That's just nuts."

"They weren't all in that car, were they?"

"Nope. They split into two groups, and one of 'em got away, but if we move it, we can catch 'em."

Logan frowned at him. "How?"

Marc grinned at him, all teeth and confidence. "Like I don't a getaway car when I see one. That thing'll get one block, then it'll die and it won't start again. They'll be forced to continue on foot, and that's when we pick 'em off."

Logan shook his head, but in an admiring way. He should have known Marc would be on top of that. "There'll be civilians around; we can't control the environment."

"We can if we're careful. Haven't you ever herded sheep, Alberta boy?"

"No … I don't think so."

"Well then, follow my lead," he said, turning and leading the way across the street. At the last second, he hid the rifle under his long coat.

"You've never herded a sheep in your goddamn life," Logan pointed out.

Marc shrugged. "Maybe not, but I've herded people. It's the same, except there's slightly less chance you'll step in their crap."

Sid, following close behind him, whispered, "He's joking, right?"

"We can only hope so," Logan told him.

They stuck to alleys and side streets, and eventually took it up to the roofs, mainly so no one saw the weaponry they were packing, but partially because Logan completely forgot he was splattered with blood. It wasn't a small amount either, especially in the front. Marc joked that he should carry a footlocker full of shirts with him at all times.

The mercenaries were easy to spot. They'd shed their ski masks and hidden their XM8s, but they hadn't changed their clothes, and Logan pegged the American and his laptop bag on sight. "The bag has the box," Logan told them. "I need to get it, but we can't hit it with a bullet. I don't know what will happen if we do."

"Got it," Marc replied, not too concerned. They watched the group - it was the American and two other men, meaning their numbers were now equal - as they tried to walk casually down the street, the American talking hastily but quietly into his cell phone. Marc asked Sid, "How good a shot are you?"

"If I didn't get ten shots out of ten on the firing range, I was drilled for two extra hours on rifle care and maintenance," Sid answered, as emotionally neutral as always.

"So I take it you're good."

"I hated drilling."

Presumably that was a yes. So he and Marc picked mercenaries to take out in unison, while Logan dropped down to the street. Once the mercenary guards were taken out, the American would be alone, and he was Logan's.

But as they were waiting to start, a long black car pulled up to the curb, and the rear door swung open. The American and his two pals started heading towards the car, a definite fuck up to the plan.

Just as the car door shut, Logan came running out, charging the car, popping his claws as he rammed his fist through the passenger window. He was met with gunshots as he threw open the door and lunged in at the driver as the man put the car in gear and sped off, trying to throw him out of the car using speed and reckless driving.

Gunfire from the backseat accidentally hit the driver, and his head exploded in a gory mess as Logan rammed his claws into the dashboard and sliced through a whole bunch of wiring, killing the engine. The gunfire was so loud in the enclosed space that Logan wasn't completely sure what he was hearing outside, but he thought he heard a helicopter.

Oh fun. He wondered if they'd be able to tell if they were friend or foe before they opened fire on them.


	7. Chapter 7

The idiots were still shooting, even though they'd killed their own guy. Didn't they grasp that bullets wouldn't kill him? Maybe they thought he was a zombie, and only a head shot would put him down. He heard the American shouting to men outside the car, "Kill him already, goddamn it!"

There were lots of gunshots now, but most were outside the car, and he had to wonder if the chopper was now firing on them, or they were firing on the chopper, or some variation of that scenario. He threw himself out of the car, claws out, and he was almost instantly attacked by men in dark clothes who were either rival terrorists or the mercenaries' back up. One jammed a knife in his back, but the blade snapped when it hit adamantium, and Logan tried to ignore the sharp pain of it as he lashed out, shredding weapons, cloth, and people with the same broad swipes. He stomped on one man's leg hard enough to make the bone audibly snap; he screamed and fell aside, getting nearly trampled by the other men rushing in to subdue him. Logan threw an elbow that caught someone in the throat as he held out his other claw and let an ambitious thug impale himself on it, while he kicked another man in the stomach, making him drop to his knees retching. Someone tried to shoot him point blank in the back of the skull, and the kick of impact sent him stumbling forward, dark spots pulsing momentarily in his vision, but someone else was worse off. The bullet didn't shatter, it ricocheted off his skull and hit someone else. Possibly the gunman himself; he really didn't know.

He felt the electrical bite of a taser, but they were nothing compared to the paralyzer the Organization carted around, so he simply snapped the wires and punctured the man's shoulder with his claws, in such a way that not only was he bleeding copiously and in a hell of a lot of pain, but his left taser firing arm was now useless. By the time these clowns ran out of ineffective weapons to use on him, there were no more clowns to deal with - they were all bleeding on the asphalt, useless and unable to get up and fight, even if they wanted to. But somehow he didn't think they wanted to.

The helicopter was exchanging gunfire with the roof of the building on his left, and he could just see Sid standing on its edge, firing his XM8 at them. They must have figured out that the bullets weren't hurting him, but could hurt them, as they veered off suddenly, getting the hell out of there. Down the street, he saw cordons had already been deployed in the form of what looked like bulletproof sedans, so that explained why there was no traffic driving through. Behind the cars, aiming official looking handguns, was a group of people who looked like plain clothes cops, but were probably intelligence agents. Logan picked up a Walther PPK from one of the useless mercenaries and stuck it in the waistband of his jeans, behind his back, just in case.

The American was across the street, and realized things looked really bad for him, as he had his own handgun out, but was aiming it at his shoulder bag as he shouted at the agents, "Anyone move and I scatter this shit all over the place!"

The agents were flashing each other questioning looks, judging whether or not he was bluffing, and Logan decided to clarify the issue by shouting at them, "He's got it in the bag - he's not bluffing!"

More curious looks from the agents, some of whom consulted their radios, as if trying to figure out which team he was on. The American shifted his gaze to him, and ordered, "Stay where you are, Wolverine! You even fucking twitch and it's over!"

"I have a name, you know. Logan."

The American continued glaring at him, but now his lip twitched in a sneer. "Who gives a fuck?"

Logan was signaling with his hand behind his back, and he hoped Marc or Sid saw it and knew what it meant. "I used to be in the Special Forces."

The man's look grew more baffled. "_So? _Who gives a fuck what a mutie freak show piece of shit like you used to do?"

Even Logan heard the noise on the roof behind him, and the American's pale eyes flicked up to the top of the building, and he stiffened slightly. "Drop those fucking guns! Now! I'm not kidding!"

Logan pulled out his gun and fired, putting a neat hole in the American's forehead as the back of his skull blew out, splattering blood and brain matter all over the sidewalk behind him. Even so, his body stood there a moment, eyes unseeing and perfectly dead. "So?" he told the corpse, throwing the Walther away. "So it means I know how to use a gun, fucknuts. Jesus, how stupid can one man be?"

The corpse gave way to gravity, but Logan caught it and ripped the bag off his arm, letting his corpse thud to the street as he held up the bag. "Weapon secured," he told the agents, who now started to swarm towards him, but cautiously, with their guns out and trained on him. He rolled his eyes at their paranoia. "I'm Canadian, I'm working alongside Swiss intelligence. I'm on your side, damn it! And they're with me, so don't shoot them either." he added, gesturing at Marc and Sid. Just to make themselves less menacing, they dropped the XM8's, but they seemed in no great hurry to get off the roof.

The first agent to get close to him was a tall, trim woman with severely cut brown hair and rather attractive hazel eyes, who lowered her gun with lingering caution. For some reason, he had come to expect the female intelligence agents to be braver than their male counterparts, if only because to get anywhere, they had to work twice as hard and take twice the risks to prove they weren't "soft". For that reason, he usually took them more seriously than their male colleagues too. "You were in the bank," she said, her voice betraying the accent of a born Berliner. Ah, so this was German intelligence - it was an awful stereotype to say that that made sense, as they'd probably get a cordon up a lot faster than Swiss intelligence, but it was true, as this proved.

He nodded. "I was supposed to see if I could pick up a scent of the stuff. I didn't think it'd turn into Dog Day Afternoon on me."

"The scent of it?" She repeated, slightly confused. But she must have figured that that was too outrageous to be bullshit, as she completely lowered her handgun. "It has a smell?"

"Oh yeah." As if to illustrate this, he took a deep breath, and being this close to the object now, holding it in his hands, he got a truly layered scent, something with more nuance than a simple trace, and the gears clicked in his mind, his brain finally coming up with a memory match. He was so startled he almost bobbled the damn thing.

Son of a bitch. This wasn't a biological weapon - this was weapons grade uranium. No wonder everyone was scrambling after it; with this, you were half way to your own nuclear weapon.

He looked at the woman gravely, and asked, "You got people to handle this, right?"

She nodded, and he knew why she was keeping her distance. Uranium of this type wasn't overly radioactive, it wasn't likely to give you a lethal dose after a few seconds exposure, but it was hardly harmless. You wouldn't want to give it to little Timmy in lieu of Play-Doh. "We have doctors who can treat you."

"Don't need it."

"It would be best if we could check you out -"

"Darlin', healing is my mutant ability, and I've been exposed to uranium, plutonium, you name it - it stings a bit, but I get over it."

An intense puzzlement entered her warm brown eyes. He pegged her in her early forties, but she was attractive for it, even if her haircut was a bit severe. "How have you been exposed to all of that?"

He was forced to shrug. "Let's just say this whole afternoon wasn't exactly an anomaly for me."

Oh, if only it was.

6

The woman was named Anke Schlesinger, and she did work for German intelligence, like Logan assumed. She was also rather nice to him, once time wore on. She wasn't nice to him because she was a woman - the fact that they had to work harder to be taken as seriously as their male counterparts usually meant they were harder than granite - but because she seemed to get that he was just doing a favor for the Swiss, who were swamped and having a hard time with the investigation. As soon as she confirmed a few things, she admitted that he seemed ideally suited to tracking down missing uranium.

It also helped that the bank hostages confirmed that he (and Sid) had undoubtedly saved their lives. Although they were curious where Sid and his "other friend" had gone, because while the drama played out on the street, with the safe handling and securing of the uranium, Marc and Sid had somehow slipped away. Not that Logan was all that surprised - Marc was very good at his job. And if he was at liberty, he and Sid could come rescue him if he ended up arrested or in jail or something. (If he actually needed rescuing, which was a longshot at best. But still, it was worth erring on the side of caution.)

The Swiss said he wasn't working for them, a weaselly cop out, but did admit he was working "in concert" with them, which seemed like a way to cover their ass. The Germans, for all their reputation as stern, actually seemed to be more forgiving - or at least Anke was, as he caught her rolling her eyes at the Swiss's weasel words.

Anke did give him a bit of a dressing down, telling him the blindly obvious, such as the fact that intelligence agencies didn't like civilians getting in on their ops, and he was still a civilian even if he had once been with Canadian intelligence and he was a "superhero". But after that she told him he was a real hero today, and let him go.

From what she'd told him and what he'd picked up eavesdropping, the whole things had been a German operation from the beginning. They heard about the music box first, although not before it was on Swiss soil. The Swiss were working with them, but it was their deal, basically.

They were also nice enough to get him a t-shirt to replace his shredded, bloody one, so he could walk outside and only have about half the people stare at him as opposed to all of them. It was nearing dusk, judging from the shades of lilac and pink that were painting the sky, and he wondered how in the hell it had gotten so late so fast. He got about thirty feet from the blocky government building when there was a high pitched, sharp whistle. He turned to see Marc smiling and waving at him from across the street.

Logan cut across the street and joined him. Marc led the way down a side street as he said, "I knew it. As soon as I saw you were talking to a female G-man, I told Sid "_Oh, he's walkin'_". The ladies just love you."

He gave him an evil look. "Except for the ones who try and kill me."

"Well, you're always gonna get those."

Once they got into the rental car that Marc had gotten for the occasion, he updated him on all he had learned. When he mentioned that the item in the box was uranium, he winced. "Damn. Do you know how much you can get for that on the black market?"

Logan glared at him.

"What? I'm not sayin' I'd sell it, I'm just sayin' that stuff can write its own ticket. Which explains why so many groups were willing to pull out the heavy artillery for it."

"I know, and since I've had encounters with various terrorist groups in both Special Forces and the Organization, I guess that explains why Swiss intelligence was worried I'd ruin things."

"Ruin things? If they had two brain cells to rub together, they'd run the moment they heard you were in on this."

"But they want to arrest as many of these guys as possible. So if they did run, I would be fucking things up."

Marc considered that a moment and then shrugged, starting the car. "I guess. But they were morons for not recruiting you from the outset. You probably could have prevented a few deaths."

It was Logan's turn to shrug. "I'm not sure about that. It'd be more like different people dying, probably." After a moment, he added, "You know we still got a problem."

"What?"

"Haun. Did he hire you to retrieve the music box, or the uranium being smuggled inside it?"

Marc sat back, staring out the windshield as he considered that. "Yeah. You'd think a businessman of his standing would have no use for uranium, but if he's aware how much it could go for on the open market, he could want it for that."

"'Cause he's a greedy amoral bastard."

"Exactly. Weird how many CEO's seem to fit that definition nowadays."

"We should go ask him."

Marc gave him a sidelong glance, and frowned before shaking his head. "Sorry, no can do."

That made Logan fix him with a harsh glare. "Excuse me?"

"If it gets out I smacked the shit out of a client, I'll probably never work again."

"Let me do it then."

"Man, I'm sorry, but no. You're a known associate of mine."

Logan couldn't believe this. "Since when do you pussy out of anything?"

"I ain't pussying out, I just have a reputation to uphold, no matter how slender and tenuous. Isn't there some other way we can nail this bastard?"

Logan thought about that, still not happy that Marc would pull this shit on him. But he supposed he did have a point, as much as he didn't like it. "I could drop his name to Johannes, see if they could keep an eye on him."

"There's an idea. And this way, we don't have to stay in fucking Zurich anymore."

He supposed he couldn't argue with that; he felt he'd had enough of Zurich for a while. "Where's the next stop - home?"

"No. Matthias told me about this club in Amsterdam that we just have to check out. Maybe it'll loosen Sid up a bit."

"Matthias?"

"The bartender from the hotel. He quit; he got bored."

Unbelievable. "And now he's traveling with you? Do you really need a boyfriend weighing you down?"

"I haven't known him long enough for him to qualify as a boyfriend. I think he's more in line of a fuck buddy."

Logan sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Too much information."

"Oh, like you couldn't smell him on me."

Okay, that was fair enough. "Still, that kinda makes me and Sid third and fourth wheels."

"Sid's the third wheel. You can pick up a chick any time you want. Although if you must know, that baffles me. I mean, I know you're buff, and you got a great ass, but you'd think the sideburns would queer the deal."

Logan stared daggers at him, but Marc grinned at him in that smart ass way of his, and seemed immune to his anger. "I refuse to dignify that with a response."

"Can't think of any, huh? Okay, I'll give you a mulligan this time, bud. Anyways, I figure if we get Sid to Amsterdam, I can get him to smoke some pot, and maybe he'll finally loosen up and start acting like a Human being, not a robot."

"Hey, that's not fair. The kid can't help it. He was trained to be just this one thing all his life. He breaks his training in fits and spurts, but he never quite commits to it. At least he's trying. I mean, it took me a while to break my training after I escaped the Organization."

"Yeah, but they fucked with your mind. Telepaths never moved into his head and redecorated, did they?"

"No, but they didn't hafta, that's the sad part. He was raised that way. It's gonna take him longer."

Marc grimaced and nodded, driving off towards the hotel. "Poor kid. You can't help but feel bad for him."

"Yeah, I know. I think in twenty years he'll be just a regular guy, we just hafta be patient."

"I still say we give pot a try."

Logan snickered, shaking his head. "You just wanna get stoned for pseudo-noble reasons."

"Pseudo-noble? Well, who's mister la-di-dah with the ten dollar words?" he teased sarcastically. "You know, I'm actually thinking Sid might be a good partner to take on in the biz if you ain't available. The whole bulletproof thing is pretty handy."

"It does have its uses. He might like it, actually, as it'll give him a chance to use what he knows without Scott telling him to tone it down."

"And let's face it - if anyone can loosen that kid up, it's gonna be me."

Logan mock shuddered. "Okay, now I'm having second thoughts about this."

Marc gave him a playful shove. "Oh right - like I'm a worse role model than you."

"Are you tryin' to hurt my feelings?"

That made Marc laugh so hard he almost lost control of the steering wheel. Once he got himself under control, he wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. "Okay, now I think I know why the chicks dig you."

"Just drive, Jeeves." He supposed he would be just damn happy to get the hell out of Zurich. It wasn't that it wasn't a nice little city, as it was … but what happened to that "simple job" this whole thing was supposed to be? All the dried blood on his skin was starting to itch, and he figured he was going to need a three day shower. Also, he figured if Xavier heard about this - and he probably would - he'd get a big ass boring lecture. Also, Canadian Intelligence might chime in since he used their name for credentials.

Amsterdam was starting to sound better and better.

"I know," Marc exclaimed, apropos of nothing. "Pot brownies!The kid likes chocolate, right? I know this place in Amsterdam that serves 'em. We'll just not mention the special ingredients, and let him have a couple. Then we all watch Dodgeball, and I betcha the kid laughs 'til he pisses himself."

"I'm not sure if that plan is genius or cruelty."

"Probably a bit of both."

"Probably." Logan let a moment of comfortable silence pass, then insisted, "Shoot me in the fucking head if I ever agree to go on a gig with you again."

That made Marc chuckle. "You love it and you know it."

"Oh yeah, I love getting in the middle of international incidents with crazed mercenaries, weaselly intelligence agents, and uranium. It's like a blast of sunshine up the ass."

Marc kept chuckling like this was all funny, but in a familiar way, like he'd heard the joke a dozen times before but wasn't quite over it yet. "I got one thing going for me, one thing that'll always have you comin' back for more."

"Oh really, smart ass? And what's that?"

Marc flashed him his patented shit eating grin, and said, "I'm never boring."

Oh damn it - he was right.

He hated it when that happened.

* * *

**The End **


End file.
